


Too Much Too Fast

by QtheBoar



Series: Horsepower 3600 [2]
Category: Starlight Express - Phillips/Stilgoe/Webber
Genre: CB and post 2018 caboose are seperate characters, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Intervention, Other, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Recovery, blending canon how I want, train meta
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-02
Updated: 2021-01-19
Packaged: 2021-02-28 07:15:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 32,109
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22989937
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QtheBoar/pseuds/QtheBoar
Summary: Strike is a diesel engine whose entire identity has become defined by his tragic past, after a racing accident ended his racing career and everything he held dear to him. Broken and neglected, he was inclined to give up on life, until he was given a second chance working for a certain pair of steamers. A long road to recovery lies ahead and he will need all the help he can get.My first fic, "Struck Out" is the prologue to this work, I did some revisions to clarify/fix some of the meta, so you may want to reread that if you read it before I posted this fic and you feel inclined to.
Relationships: Dinah/Greaseball (Starlight Express), Original Character & Original Character, Pearl/Rusty (Starlight Express)
Series: Horsepower 3600 [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1652233
Comments: 12
Kudos: 37





	1. One Night's Sleep Too Few

**Author's Note:**

> Since my first Strike fic was quite well received, I've decided to go ahead with continuing Strike's story. Thanks to everyone who left kudos and comments on the last one. I'm very excited to go forth with this. Hope you enjoy dear readers!

The non-stop trip from Alliance to Memphis took quite a bit out of Strike. The trip from the maintenance facility to Tennessee Yard took a while since the steamers needed to take a longer route to hit replenishing points. There was nothing in the world he wanted more than to have a nice cozy shed to retire to.

Unfortunately he had to deal with a welcome party instead. 

"Where's the new diesel? I want to see 'em!" of a group of various freight trucks who gathered a graffiti-ed up brick truck pushed through the rest to get to the three engines first, "It'll be nice to be moved by something besides you smelly steamers for once!" 

"He's right here, Flat-Top" Rusty replied not seeming phased at all by the brick truck's latter comment. 

The truck took one good look at Strike and whistled, "Musta gotten yourself into a mean fight there fella! Did ja' win at least?" 

".....No, I lost…" Strike was not amused at the brick truck's shenanigans in the least. 

"Well that's too bad. I've gotten into quite a few fights myself y'know!" Flat Top continued to brag on about all the totally real fights he's gotten into and won, completely oblivious to the diesel's annoyance. 

It took the three boxcar physically pushing Flat Top away from Strike to get him to back off from the diesel. 

"Sorry about Flat Top, he just tries to look cool in front of diesel engines", said the boxcar marked as 1. 

"How flattering" Strike said still unamused, "if that was Flat Top who might you be?"

"I'm Rocky, there's lots like me!" the numbered 1 box car in yellow blurted out rhythmically.

"I'm Rocky 2!" blurted the one in red.

"I'm Rocky 3!" blurted a female truck in blue.

"Okay, okay pipe down!" exclaimed Strike wincing at the noise. 

"Hey! I wasn't finished talkin'!" Flat Top suddenly barged back into the conversation. Now Strike was crowded by four different freight trucks as they bickered with each other. 

Rusty could feel that Strike was getting agitated. To the guy's credit he was keeping himself pretty tame given how nippy he seemed to get, though it seemed that his limit was coming to its end. The smaller steamer was not the greatest at commanding attention, so he signaled to Poppa that they should probably get Strike away from the Rockies and Flat Top before he blew his top. 

"Hey! All a' ya' settle down now!" Once the four trucks quieted themselves to listen to Poppa he continued, "Strike here's had a tiring trip. You can talk to him proper tomorrow, but now we should show him to his shed and let him rest up, alright?" 

_ Thank goodness… _

Rusty could feel Strike's tension start to release. 

"No reason to keep you hitched to us at this point. I'll show you shed eight, that's where you'll be staying." Rusty said releasing his couplers from Strike's. Strike couldn’t help but sigh, he didn’t quite realize how restrictive it was being sandwiched between the steamers until they let him go. 

_ So that’s what I have to look forward to from now on _ .

Strike tried not to think too much about his new job, doing his best to place his focus on the relief of quiet, being able to move freely, and soon being able to rest. 

Strike’s eyes felt heavy and his temples squeezed. His body felt like it weighed heavier than usual, with his back fixed in a ridged slouch. This frustrated him. 

Back in his prime he was such a nimble engine. His 20 cylinders humming away as he accelerated smoothly. He felt so light and flowing even when pulling large freight loads over mountainous regions. 

_ Your kind is a curse…. _

That's what an old buzzard of an SD40-2 told him once. The SD45 was supposed to be the more powerful and fuel efficient successor to the SD40s, though even before Strike was built, his older brothers had seen reliability issues that where still seen in Strike's improved breed; the 45T-2. Still, Southern Pacific seemed to be quite in love with Strike’s kind despite the occasional flaws. Not only did SP buy the most SD45 class members of any other company, most of their fleet before their closing was of Strike’s breed. But, ultimately that buzzard wasn’t wrong…

First off, SP was no more. Whether the SD45s where the cause Strike could only guess, Here he was struggling through a damn hump yard as if his wheels had rusted to his axles. It took him forever to start most mornings and he would cough up a storm of exhaust. Made him hope that shed eight had some good ventilators. Some mornings he would just keep coughing and sputtering periodically for hours while running through morning work. Rumor has it that some pollution complaints from towns he passed through were filed. He had been neglected because no one wanted the burden of an engine like him. He was too expensive to maintain. He wasn’t worth it. He knew that. He could hear people talk in his sleep. 

_ Sleep. _

Not really the best way to describe it.

More like a coma really. A coma in a stuffy room surrounded by the equivalent of the stuffed corpses of old rolling stock. He never really thought about how haunting being mounted in that museum was. He’d lived around diesels his whole life. The first time he saw a steamer, it was what the humans called a “retired static display”. Basically a propped up dead specimen of a locomotive. Now being here around live, running steamers seemed to make a shiver run down his spine. It brought the reality of his previous situation to life. 

His engine heated up. 

He breathed quicker as his fans spun more rapidly. 

"Here it is", Rusty opened the she's door to show the diesel the interior, "shed eight!" 

Rusty was putting on his best hospitality smile.

Strike tried to quiet and slow his breathing, hoping the steamer wouldn't notice his sudden spike in tension. 

"Hope you you like it okay" Rusty said as the diesel wordlessly rolled in. 

Strike made a quick scan of the inside. 

"I don't need much, it's a roof over my head so it's good enough for me", he commented emotionlessly. 

Rusty scratched the back of his neck.

"I should probably turn in myself. I'll see you in the morning and show you around the yard. G'night!" 

"'Night…" 

In his past, Strike traveled a lot and was quite adaptable to change. He was a proper citizen when traveling and could make himself comfortable just about anywhere. 

That ability did not really stick with him since he left the museum. For one thing, his current situation was not the same as the last. He got to spend a lot of quiet, alone time on the rails zooming from place to place with his freight line all day every day. His rest periods were really the only time he would spend at a single place for an extended period of time. He liked that kind of lifestyle, the only downside in his mind was that he would spend a fair amount of time away from Hot Shot. 

How, he was stuck circling the same yards for days on end, unable to ride the high speed rails without an escort engine to keep from running his own. In the yards people and other rolling stock were in his face constantly, even the ones he didn’t mind as much would get on his nerves eventually. Usually for minor things, he’d admit, but he couldn’t help himself getting agitated. It was exhausting, and tested his patience quite a bit. Not to mention the noise. 

The museum kept him sheltered from loud noises. Little did he realize before he left, his accident seemed to make loud noises even more unbearable. He didn’t always want to vocalize when noises were bothering him, some just really had a way of making his skin crawl. While he was at the maintenance facility he ended up picking up the habit of punching and ramming walls when certain noises bothered him. He never really understood why, but when the noises disturbed him, it would make his skin crawl. Trying to release that tension with aggression and pain was the only outlet he could think of in those situations. It did certainly get the attention of the workers at the facility. They did not want their vintage locomotive denting himself more than he already had. They were ordered just to test him, and only do repairs that were absolutely necessary if any at all. If the engine was all dented they would get chewed out, if they repaired any dents, adding extra maintenance cost to their customer, they would also get chewed out. To their credit they moved Strike around the facility to keep him away from noises that would bother him. It was a functional yet tedious solution. 

If there was one thing going for him right now, it was the fact that he and the steamers seemed to be housed on a quieter point of the hump yard. Hump yards never rest though most tend to be a bit less active at night, and these sheds were a bit away from the elevators and major switching zones. That was nice at least. 

Strike sighed, doing his best to ease himself. Then, he remembered the one possession he had. He grabbed the picture of him and Hot Shot he kept stored in his cab, wondering what the hell he should do with it. There was a single table to his right. He figured he could just leave it there and figure it out some other time. He placed it face down to try to keep himself from being tempted to look at it for too long. 

Even if he wasn’t staring at it, preventing the flood of memories that would keep him awake tonight was easier said than done. 


	2. Struck Nerves

Three hours of sleep was certainly better than none. On the bright side it made waking up easier. Since his engine was left idling most of the night, three hours was not enough to get his engine cold, so he was still somewhat warm for his morning startup. For once he wouldn’t spend his morning having a competition with the steamers over who could smoke up the yard the fastest. 

Bad news was that not giving his engine a chance to cool down meant that his joints became quite sore, and he was lower on diesel than he should be. 

_ Suck it up buttercup, we got work to do today.  _

He grit his teeth, doing his best to ignore the strain on his joints and cooling fans (which were whirring almost all night, while his engine idled sleeplessly) to quickly have his morning refueling and meet up with Rusty.

He hoped Rusty wasn't too much of a morning person. Or even more, those noisy trucks from last night. The last thing he wanted right now was to talk to anyone. 

_ Where’s Rusty anyways? I don’t know my way around the yard I just got here….oh…. _

Strike looked up and could easily make out a billowing cloud of smoke. 

_ Well duh, live steamers make steam Einstein. That does make things easier doesn’t it.  _

Strike followed the smoke to its source. As expected he found Rusty getting the last of his water and coal replenished. 

“Oh, there you are Strike!” the steamer’s face brightened a bit upon seeing the diesel. 

“What was I late or some’in?” Strike asked holding a scowl and crossing his arms. 

“No, no, not at all! I’m the one who’s late, sorry to keep you waiting.” 

“S’fine”, Strike shrugged. 

Strike took the last few moments of Rusty’s morning replenish to lean against the nearest wall and rest his eyes for a bit. 

"All right! All set! Let's acquaint you with the place huh?" Rusty interrupted Strike's dozing, leading the diesel to just respond with a soft groan. 

_ How can he act so cheery so early in the morning?  _

"You know what your job description for working here is?" 

"One can hope. I'm here to switch and tag along with you and the geezer correct?" 

"Well yeah", Rusty clearly wasn't a fan of the 'geezer' comment, but tried to shake it off, "let's show you everything relevant to what you're going to be doing for us".

Strike's not sure how much of the tour he actually picked up. He just hoped to Starlight that he picked up on the important parts. Learning through lecture was not a talent of his. He always was a better hands-on learner. 

"So anyways, now that I've shown you around, why don't I introduce properly to the others".

_ Oh joy… _

Strike could only hope that the trucks from yesterday had mellowed out since then. 

Rusty led him to a depot where the freight would hang around between jobs. 

The trucks were all casually sitting around until they noticed Strike.

"Oh there's the diesel!" Strike recognized the brick truck instantly.

_ What's with this guy and his obsession with diesels? As far as engines go 'round here we're kind of a dime a dozen… Does he really only ever work around steamers? _

"I have a name you know." 

Flat-Top seemed to completely ignore that statement. 

"Last I remember, you never did tell us your name." Rocky 3 piped up.

"Didn't the geezer tell ya?" 

"We 'ought to hear it from you, shouldn't we", replied Rocky, acting like he was ready to put up his dukes and fight the diesel any second. 

"Name's Strike" the diesel sighed. 

Strike noticed two others who had kept their distance, not looking as eager to greet him. A big hopper who was looking a bit anxious to greet the newest addition to the freight yard and a red caboose who was just staring at him with an unsettling smile. 

"Uh, Rusty? What's the deal with those two?" He whispered to the steamer. 

"Oh, the hopper's Dustin. He's a nice guy just really shy"

"Gotcha, and the 'boose?" 

"That's CB, he's uh… He just lives here" 

Rusty made his voice even quieter. 

"Let's just say he's on probation and not allowed to do a whole lot. He's been mostly harmless these days. Hoping it stays that way". 

Strike paused nodding slowly.

"I see…" 

_ I'll be keeping my eye on that one _ …

"You didn't tell us your story either, how'd you manage to end up here? Always thought those guys at with that historical society were cheap as dirt. Seeing as your face looks like that, I can only imagine that they picked you off assembly line heading straight for scrapping",the brick truck so obliviously babbled on. 

Strike's engine revved angrily. 

Rusty saw that things were escalating  _ fast _ . 

"Flat-Top, please don't-" Rusty choked out meekly. 

Flat Top just noticed the logo for Southern Pacific on Strike's chest box. 

"Ah, SP. Haven't seen anything of them for quite a few years now. So they really did pick you up from a scrap yard!"

And that's where things went straight from zero to one hundred.

Rusty tried to grab Strike and hold him back. Unfortunately the switcher was a mere ragdoll against 184 tons of angry, mainline built, diesel locomotive, as Strike pounced at Flat-Top in blind rage. 

"Oh shi-", that's when Flat Top knew he screwed up. 

His speed may have been limited by his compromised engine but he was still strong. In a matter of seconds, Strike had grabbed the brick truck by the neck and had him lifted and pinned against a wall. 

No words. So actions. Just Strike holding the squirming truck up with one hand, staring at him with a nasty glare and teeth bared on the right side of his face.

"Hey man! Quit it!" 

The Rockies joined Rusty in trying to pry Strike away from Flat Top. Dustin was cowering wide eyed in the furthest corner. CB's smile seemed to melt off as he looked at the scene in front of him with raised eyebrows. 

Despite the best efforts of three boxcars and a steam locomotive, Strike stubbornly refused to budge. Rocky 2 tried to grab his free arm, but Strike slipped out of his grip before he could hold him down. Everyone flinched, expecting Strike to punch Flat Top with his free hand. However his hand swiftly whipped across his own face snatching the eyepatch and ripping it off to reveal his ghost-like, static, left eye. 

"My face funny to you brick truck? Take a good look! Get real acquainted with it! This is all just a joke to you ain't it?" 

Flat Top just looked at Strike with an unchanging expression of fear. 

"What on earth is going on here?" 

Everyone, both locomotive and truck was insanely stunned frozen by the sound of an angry, old steamer. Strike dropped Flat-Top, the brick truck falling to his knees and coughing. 

They all turned to look at a, clearly, very irate Poppa. 

"I coulda guessed something like this would happen, but on your first full day here?" 

Strike shook the shock off his face pretty quick and immediately redirected his rage toward Poppa. 

"Oh yeah, well pray tell what exactly was goin' on here Gramps?" 

"You diesels can't seem to live without feeling the need to dominate over everyone else! All you know is violence and pushing everyone else around! I don't know why we agreed to take you in the first place!" 

Strike snorted, "Oh so because I'm a diesel it means you automatically know everything about me? Are all you steamers a bunch of judgemental know-it-alls as well? So how 'bout it Socrates! Why don't you tell  _ me  _ why you took me in? 'Cause Starlight knows I don't have a damn clue!" 

"I pitied your sorry butt! That's why!" 

" _ Pity!  _ Of course it was pity! Pity and hatred seem to be the only two things anyone has ever felt for me since the day I crashed! Eight years of people saying 'oh look at that poor loser!' Anything anyone has to say about me is about my crash! That's my greatest accomplishment in life Poppa! What's yours? I get to wear this beautiful trophy on my face for  _ all  _ to see!" Strike pointed to the crack on his face breathing wildly through clenched teeth. 

"I know what happened! But, what right does it give you to terrorize Flat-Top or anyone else? It’s no excuse for you to act like a complete bully!” Poppa lowered his voice a moment, “At this rate he’s no better than Greaseball was.”

“Greaseball?  _ Greaseball?  _ What does that bastard have to do with anything?” 

“Oh so you know him?”

“Who do you think I was racing when I crashed? Some engines might be willing to trade their own camshaft for the chance to lick that pompous Elvis-wannabe’s butt clean, but I sure as hell ain’t one of ‘em!” 

“Well you’d have me fooled since you sure to act like one of his old butt kissers!”

"Oh do I?"

"All I ever see diesels doing is muscling their way outta everything that threatens you!

Once you force your way in, you're like a damn pestilence, taking out everyone else in your path! There coulda been room on the rails for both diesel and steam, but your kind had to have it all!"

"Just accept it grumps! Diesel's stronger! Diesel's here to stay! The only reason you two are still around is because humans are so stupidly sentimental!"

Strike was so focused on Poppa that he was completely unaware of Rusty's heartbroken expression. 

“Both of you knock it off!”

Strike and Poppa’s confrontation was quickly broken up by a clearly not too pleased, femminine voice, that Strike did not recognize.

“B-Belle!” Rusty squeaked meekly. 

Standing in the doorway with hands on her hips was an older sleeping car. She looked pretty luxury, though clearly hadn’t seen any mainline work and maintenance for quite some time. 

“You”, Belle approached Poppa first and poked his chest with her index finger, “You need to stop heating up an already hot situation!” 

Belle then turned to Strike and pointed harshly at him, “And you, need to think before you act and stop running your damn mouth!”

“Oh yeah? Well who asked you to butt in, you old hag?’ 

Before Strike could react he took a rag straight to the face. 

“Son, what did I just say?” Belle came closer, meeting Strike face to face as he pulled the rag off his head, “If you're gonna survive ‘round here you ‘ought to learn to respect your elders!” 

"I don't even know who you are y'old witch!" It was then that Strike got a swift wack to the back of the head. He winced and clutched where he's just been hit, groaning. 

"And this is how you choose to greet a stranger? Memphis Belle's the name," the sleeper said matter of factly.

A struggled, crooked smile came to Strike's face, "Belle, eh-?" 

He was instantly met with another wack to the head, "That's  _ Miss  _ Belle to you son! Now I want  _ you  _ back in your shed and don't even think of coming out until one of us comes to get you, we'll discuss this with you later" she commanded. 

"Why shou-" tensing up, Strike noticed Belle winding up to whack him again, "Y-yes."

He was met with yet another whack, "Yes,  _ Miss Belle _ !" She corrected. 

"Yes, Miss Belle", Strike muttered in defeat. That last wack to the head seemed to knock him back into reality. Flat-Top was back up now, in the corner trying to assure a shaken Dustin that everything was fine. The boxcars and caboose were still trying to process what just happened. Finally, his eyes fell on Rusty who was on his knees looking between Poppa and Strike with tears welling up in his eyes.

_ Boy,I've really done it this time… _

He rolled off shamefully to his shed without another word. The weight of his mistakes piling onto him, made his shoulders slouch heavily. 

_ I'm such a damn idiot… _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Looks like Strike got himself into some serious trouble, next chapter we'll how things pan out for him and hopefully he cleans up his act. This chapter's a bit short but I have quite a bit in store for the next one.


	3. Call me Rusty, I Don't Care

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is longer and Rusty centric! Whoo Whoo! All aboard the feels train!

Strike sat alone in his shed. Lights off, blinds closed, only minimal daylight sneaking in to make the nearly empty space visible. 

He sat on the floor, holding that old picture of him and Hot Shot. 

"I'm sorry I failed you… I never learned… Once again I hurt myself and everyone else because I was too rash."

He only kicked himself more when he saw a single tear smudge the ink on the clipping. 

"Damn it…" 

Strike heard a faint knock on his shed door. 

_ This is it, I'm done for… _

He did his best to quickly hide any evidence that he'd been crying. Doing his best to look as stoic as possible, Strike opened the door, letting the daylight sting his broken eye without a care for the pain. His expression softened a bit when he saw Rusty waiting at the door. The steamer looked down afraid to meet Strike's naturally aggressive gaze, as he fiddled with his fingers. 

"I, um, haven't talked to Poppa and Belle yet. I just wanted to check up on you…. If that's okay…" 

Strike stepped to the side and gestured Rusty to come in. 

"I'm fine, alright," Strike spoke first quietly. 

"Good," Rusty nodded slowly. 

The two of them were quiet for what must have barely been five minutes but felt like hours. 

"I'm sorry… I didn't mean what I said, I just got too worked up…" 

"Yeah, I sorta figured that was it...", Rusty was still afraid to meet Strike's face. 

"You alright?"

"Me? Yeah. Yeah, I'm fine."

"Dustin okay?" 

Rusty finally looked up at the diesel simply out of instinct. 

_ Huh? He's asking about Dustin?  _ Rusty thought. 

"He was a bit shaken but seems okay now." 

Strike nodded slowly without another word. 

Another prolonged silence followed. 

"Uh, I should probably go back, Poppa might be looking for me", Rusty spoke up. 

"Right", Strike said in complete monotone, leaving Rusty to help himself out.

"Just remember to close the door", Strike spoke once more, gesturing to his damaged eye," you know, eye". 

"R-right of course", Rusty half muttered back. 

Once more, Strike was left alone in the quiet, dark shed. 

Poppa, now sufficiently cooled down from his faceoff with the younger diesel, had invited Rusty into his shed to talk to him and Belle. 

"You were right there with Strike, so what happened?" Poppa asked the young steamer softly. 

"Flat-Top was being, well, Flat-Top. He said something to Strike about his appearance, that already made him mad. And then he said that they must have gotten Strike right from the scrapyard, and that's when it happened…" 

"What did he do to him?" 

"Grabbed him and held him up against the wall, just like you saw. Then he just yelled at him." 

"What about?"

"Making fun of his injury." 

Poppa sat back, arms crossed. 

"While I can sympathize with that I can't have him having violent outbursts", Belle spoke up, "We can hope that Flat-Top wisened up, but we don't know for sure what might set him off. Next time it could be even worse". 

"But the director and everyone who's been working on him said he wasn't dangerous…" Rusty noted. 

"Taking their word for it was all we had. He very well may have done nothing since they woke him up, but I don't know if we should take the risk that he might abuse others. His situation is sad, but we have to protect ourselves and each other. As much as I hate to say it, some folks who go through that kind of thing are beyond conventional help. The folks at the historical society don't have a whole lot of funding to work with. We're their top priority right now. I just don't know if this situation is the best fit for us or for him." 

Rusty started to look visibly upset, "But the only alternative is…" Rusty paused for a moment, "You really want us to give him up now for one outburst?" 

"Think about it, son. We shouldn't let a warning sign like this go ignored" Poppa said, leaning forward to meet Rusty face to face. 

Rusty's voice softened as it started to crack, "So we're gonna give him up so they can cart him off to a scrapyard and put him down?" 

"Rusty…" 

"I don't think he's bad Poppa. I went to see him just a little while ago. He felt bad, he apologized. He asked if I was okay. He asked if  _ Dustin  _ was okay. He's more thoughtful than I think we're giving him credit for here. I know it doesn't mean it won't happen again, but damning him to scrap seems so cruel! He had that outburst because he's afraid Poppa! No one's told him outright, but I think he knows the prospect of being scrapped has been and still is hanging over his head!"

Poppa looked away from the young steamer. 

"I know how he feels Poppa… You remember, don't you?"

Oh Poppa remembered. How could he forget that fateful day he and Rusty met. 

The year was 1951. It was a morning in early June that a brand new 0-8-0 switcher locomotive had his fire lit for the very first time. Today locomotive 204 was brought into the world. 

He is one of the last of his kind, born under one of the last surviving, steam exclusive railways, Norfolk and Western. 

The engine was on the smaller side for an 0-8-0 but could do the job nonetheless. He was never granted a proper name, switchers often weren't. 

For his first twelve years of life, he moved about his depot yard in Norton, Virginia, where he would move coaches around for the larger mainline passenger engines. 

Each day he would watch his parent and sister engines relay back and forth across the state and dip into the surrounding states, wishing that he could one day leave Norton and see what was beyond the depot yard. He'd watch them all grow older as their mileages ticked up from hours of travel. The thought of aging didn't scare 204. He knew switchers aged much slower than mainliners. But, he would rather grow old and carry passenger trains or run races like the bigger engines. 

604 felt his boiler heat up in excitement when he saw one of the high speed passenger engines pull up to the depot. 

"Landen! Landen! The race! How was it?" 204 called out to get the large 2-6-6-4 engines attention. 

The larger steamer smiled softly to the switcher. 

"Our team didn't win I'm afraid, we came last actually", he tried not to sound too disappointed for the switcher's sake, "the Penn just got a bunch of new diesels, and without Pistol we don't really have a foothold" 

Pistol was an old class J 4-8-4 built specifically for speed. 204 had seen nothing of Pistol for the last four years or so. 

"What happened to Pistol anyways?" the switcher inquired.

"He retired a few years ago is all," Landen said matter of factly, "he's been kept at the headquarters in Roanoke". 

"Oh, I see," 204 added before Landen was called back to service. 

"Duty calls, see you later little man!" 

It wasn't long until the age of diesel was fully upon the nation. Norfolk and Western had become a time capsule of the rolling stock of the past, but was beginning to suffer for it. Finances were not allowing for upkeep of sheds in some of the yards, Norton's included. Being a mere switcher, 204 had his shed rights revoked to give the limited shed access to the mainline engines. 

Once winter came, the elements were not kind to 204. He started to see some corrosion on his frame, not too much, but the engineers decided that corrosion on a steamer was too much of a liability to work with. Rather than addressing the issue, 204 was left dormant and untouched and remained that way for a long time. 

The year was 1982. Norfolk and Western was months from shutting down. Surrendering themselves into a merger with Southern Railway, and surrendering their steam engine stock to make way for diesel. 

"Hey! We got Rusty over here too!", 204 heard an engineer yell over the stinging drum of wind and cold rain. 

_ Rusty? Who are they talking about?  _

604's head was still clouded from being dormant for who knows how long. He was only able to make out small bits of what the engineers were saying. 

"...can't get the train back here. We’ll have to stoke him up and move him…"

"...we got wood. Just use that."

"I swear to god if this thing blows on us…." 

Shortly after, 204 huffed to life as his firebox was lit up. His body felt heavy and stiff. The air around him was cold, and filled with fog. Rain and mud tortured his already corroded body. He was sandwiched tightly between a large pair of equally corroded boxcars sitting on the tracks parallel to him. The space was claustrophobic, and he crawled out onto the tracks in front of him trying to find some semblance of daylight.

_ How long have I been _ …?

604 looked out into the depot yard to see something he'd never seen before. Two large green and white clad diesels were waiting in the yard, with eight familiar slumbering steamers. One of the diesels was hooked up at the front to the line of dormant steam engines. The other was waiting toward the back, not yet coupled to the train. He was leaning against the wall of a nearby, half collapsed shed, smoking a cigarette.

"Oy, we got a live one over here, Rex" the idling diesel said to the front. 

"Oh shut up Dash! At least wait till you got ‘em coupled before talking crap like that!" Called the frontrunner. 

"Go on boy." Said one of the engineers pushing 204 forward. 

0503 was too spooked to obey. 

"What's up Rusty, your axles too rusted or something?" 

"He's out enough man, just let them back to him".

The back diesel rolled his eyes, taking in another puff of smoke as he watched his partner back the train up into the switcher. 

As the train drew closer, 204 could make out that the “Norfolk and Western” lettering on the mainliners was painted out with a single back line. He didn’t understand what this meant, but he closed his eyes hoping that he was just having some kind of nightmare. 

The frontrunner came in a bit hot causing 604 to yelp upon being harshly coupled with the rest of the train. The train drew forward slowly as the hind diesel coupled up right behind the small switcher. 

As much as 204 had always wanted to see the rails outside of the yard, he could not sit back and enjoy sights now. He didn’t know where this train was taking him, but something told him it was not somewhere he wanted to be. 

“Hey Rex can you hurry this ride up! I didn’t tire myself getting us to the depot to spend the rest of the ride huffing this little shit’s steamer smoke!” 

“Weren't you just smoking back at the depot? Quit whining!” 

The not so friendly banter between the two diesels didn’t help ease 204’s nerves. If the place he was heading to was pleasant as these two, he was heading straight for hell. 

Naturally this was the longest ride of 204’s life, but not knowing what lies ahead for him made it all the more agonizing. 

In the distance 204 heard the sounds of large machinery and the crunching and tearing of metal. Soon he was bitterly embraced by the smell of old rusted iron, waste oil, and mold. 204 felt his tubing churn. His train was dropped off behind a line of other trains with old engines and cars. Some of them were covered in rust and graffitti from years of neglect, some old but still in decent shape, and others clearly having seen horrible wrecks, fires, and explosions. 

A little ways into the yard 204 saw two diesel engines; one with it’s nose completely caved in, and one that was burned nearly down to it’s frame. 

_ What is this horrible place? _

“Keep a hold on that little guy, Hitch, he’s still kicking right now”, the back diesel called to a younger diesel switcher who was taking up the train of steamers from behind. 

“You really couldn’t have made a stop to wait for him to lose consciousness? Those mainliners just want to torture the poor thing?” 204 could just barely make out the switcher muttering to himself. 

Another diesel switcher pulled the train up further into the yard, and what 204 saw he will never ever forget, no matter how much he wished he could. 

A large old steamer was lying dormant on the track as a large claw machine came down upon it’s mighty back and began tearing the engine to shreds. Large pieces of metal and from the frame and interior came crashing down as the teeth of the claw bore down on the engine’s body. 

604 panicked, fighting hard against his couplings and the switcher behind him. He bent one of his bumpers breaking free from the train. The diesel switcher tried to restrain the steamer, but instinctively let go when he yelped in pain at having his bent bumper grabbed. 204 huffed past the switcher who gave up after letting the young steamer go. 

“Hey!” the back diesel was just about to head out with his partner when he grabbed the fleeing switcher. 204 began kicking and swiping at the diesel erratically. The diesel tried to get a firmer grip on the switcher, but the smaller engine managed to slip out of his grip and jumped onto the parallel tracks chugging away as fast as he could. The diesel followed behind, giving chase. 

"Dash! What are you doing, you fool?" 

"Between his firebox and water tank, I doubt he'll last long!" 

604 went as fast as his wheels could carry him. Being a switcher, he feared he was no match for the diesel mainliner trailing behind him. 

About eight miles up the track, he was approaching a crossing as a high speed freight train was about to pass through. 

_ I have nothing left to lose… _

204 continued at a sprint up to the crossing, showing no signs of slowing as the hauling diesel blared it’s horn trying to get the switcher to yield. 604 pushed himself to his maximum, rushing over the crossing and narrowly missing getting hit by the engine. The engine cursed him, but he did not hear. He did not care, he just needed to keep going. Having that freight line in the way of his pursuer was only buying him time. 

He did his best to try to lose the diesel. As luck would have it, the heavy fog did a good job of hiding the smoke billowing from his chimney. He knew he needed to slow himself down if he wanted to get as far away as possible. Going full throttle for too long would use up his water supply too quickly. He had to fight the instinct to keep pumping his pistons as fast as he could.

He’d been traveling for what had to be all night. He didn’t care to know how far he had gone. It felt like it would never be far enough. He felt himself fading out in exhaustion of the last of his wood and water supply, his tank was never filled earlier to begin with. He had no idea how much water he even had. He needed to find somewhere to hide as soon as possible. It was his only chance if he wanted to have a hope of not going back to that horrid place. 

He managed to scope out a hump yard with a bunch of sheds. If someone managed to find him once his stores were out, he just prayed that they would be kind to him. 

He tucked into an empty shed, slipping into the furthest corner and hugging his knees as he huffed shakily, feeling himself fading more and more with every breath. He closed his eyes and just waited for darkness to consume his sense of time and self once more. 

“Hey now, how’d you get in here?” a soft voice asked from the front of the shed. 

Despite the gentleness of the voice, being spotted caused 204 to panic, jumping and crawling back until his back was pressed against the wall. 

“Hey, it’s okay son, I’m not gonna hurt you”

The switcher surrendered a bit of his tension when he saw that the source of the voice was none other than another steamer. A larger mainliner by the looks of it. An old 4-6-2, sporting a green paint job. 

Old Ramblin’ “Poppa” McCoy heard that something or someone was seen fleeing into one of the far sheds and decided to investigate. He was the boss and protector of the yard after all. He did not expect to see that “someone” was a small young steam engine. The poor boy looked scared to death. He was covered in rust, but he was clearly just a boy. 

Poppa approached the youngster slowly and gently as possible to not to startle the already shaken young switcher. 

“It’s alright, boy, it’s alright”, he soothed. 

He knelt down in front of the boy, talking to him as softly as possible. 

“You're not gonna send me to that bad place are you? Where those monsters are destroying the engines?”, the younger engine asked shakily. 

Poppa could have guessed that a scrap line was where he came from. Poor thing looked like he’d been neglected for a while. Now that the war was over and most of the war debt had been paid, railway companies had hired more and more diesels until the last of the steamers where culled, either being retired and preserved or sent to scrap. A rusted up steamer was a liability seeing as they were more likely to experience boiler explosions. Still it broke Poppa’s heart to know that this young boy was on the line to be scrapped. 

“No, son. Of course not”, Poppa came in a bit closer as the switcher relaxed, “I won’t let anyone do that to you” 

204 was overwhelmed and couldn’t hold himself back from jumping forward and wrapping his arms around the old steamer. 

“Thank you! Thank you!” he sobbed. 

Poppa embraced the little one back, rubbing his back and running his fingers through his hair soothingly as the switcher sobbed into his shoulder. 

“It’s alright, son, Poppa’s here. Let it all out. Everything’s alright now”, he whispered. 

Poppa could see that the boy was running on fumes as his supplies were at their last. He was too exhausted to continue crying now. 

“You got a name, son?” the old engine asked. 

He couldn’t say he liked it, but it was all 204 had.

“...Rusty”. 

“Well you can rest now, Rusty. I’ll wake you later, but for now you need some rest”. 

Poppa cradled the boy in his arms as the last ember in his firebox flickered out. 

Poppa took the opportunity to look Rusty over to make sure he wasn’t badly hurt. He had a bent bumper but it looked like an easy fix. He found that the switcher was a 0-8-0. The only company he knew that would have still had 0-8-0s lying around where Norfolk and Western. Even with their merger with Southern opening up new tracks, there was quite some distance between the nearest Southern track and the yard in Memphis. Not to mention the various dead ends in track along the way. Being a small switcher with no stoker on board, and running on wood meant that the boy was running on almost nothing for quite some time.

_ Starlight Express, surely it’s by your grace that I found this boy….. _

“The Starlight Express saved you back then, I’m sure of it”, Poppa said softly.

“I think so too”, Rusty nodded, “what if the Starlight brought Strike to us too? It just doesn’t feel right to kick him out when this place has been a refuge for us. The Starlight looks out for all engines right? It punishes those who do wrong and looks out for those who need it. That’s what you’ve always told me. The Starlight has done a lot for us, a lot for me. My life’s been changed for the better, so maybe it’s my turn to be the Starlight for another engine who needs it.”

This seemed to soften Poppa’s heart just right. 

“I didn’t realize helping him meant so much to you..” 

Rusty nodded. 

“I guess we can give him one more chance,” Poppa said laying a hand on Rusty’s shoulder, “besides I think Belle scared him real good”. Poppa chuckled and winked at his old racing partner who smiled back.

“You don’t have to worry Ramblin’,  _ Miss Belle _ will keep an eye on things and make sure that ruffian stays in line”. 

“We won’t tell the society about this one. He gets one pass and that’s it,” Poppa declared, “though he still needs to be punished for this”. 

“I know there’s a junk pile that’s needed to be cleared out for a while”, Rusty suggested. 

“That works. Put that brute’s muscles to work for good instead of evil”, Poppa agreed. 

“I’ll be watching to make sure he doesn’t screw anything up”, Belle declared, “He’ll be a good little pet diesel as long as I’m around”. 

They all laughed. 

“So he didn’t ask you if Flat-Top was okay?” Poppa added.

“Would you?” retorted Rusty with a smirk. 

“Fair enough.” 


	4. Accident Waiting to Happen

Strike had officially been in Tennessee Yard for about a month doing switch work and whatever other tasks he was handed. Since the Historical Society’s ability to do excursions and fundraisers had been limited, they had the steamers rented out by BNSF to do switch work in the yard to help them pay for their own upkeep. Now, Strike was appointed to do the same. 

"You already know the routine by heart now huh? You learn fast, I'm impressed!" Rusty praised as he worked alongside Strike. 

“Hmph, not so bad for a brainless diesel, huh?” Strike huffed. 

“Oh c’mon now I’ve never said anything of the sort to you. I think we’re ready to have you start working on your own. I’m pretty confident we can trust you with that now”. 

“Well I’d hope so. I’m supposed to be looking out for and taking over for you so you don’t fall apart overworking yourself, not the other way around”. 

Strike seemed to be quite content assembling and carrying the long lines of boxcars and hoppers from point A to point B around the yard. Rusty noticed him perk up a bit when asked to move something heavy. With the physical labor of the yard work, the diesel spent most of his day in quiet focus and seemed to sleep pretty deeply at night. Rusty could tell since he was appointed as Strike's wakeup caller. The work was clearly tiring to him. He was strong no doubt, but likely nowhere near being in top shape due to sitting with his engine off for years. Engines need to run in order to stay healthy, after all. It was pretty clear that his systems were affected by that period as he would often spend hours into the morning periodically coughing dark gray clouds of exhaust due to gunked up, irritated airways. Poor guy was barely healthy enough to do switch work. 

Rusty couldn't help but wonder what an engine like Strike, who was built to be a mainliner and racer, thought of his job being changed to switch work. He couldn't imagine that he'd rather be switching even if he seemed to do it in decent spirits (for him at least).

Rusty never really liked being a switcher. He knows that's what he was built for, but the idea of never getting to run the tracks outside of the yard, going hard and fast like the bigger rigs, was always unappealing to him. Winning that championship two years ago meant that he got to go out on the rails and really feel his engine more often. Though he'd still get warnings that he shouldn't overtax himself. His frame was corroded and he was not built for high speed travel after all. He was considered a fairly high breakdown risk for this reason. 

_That's right, I could break down any day now…._

With that thought he looked over to Strike who was moving some box cars into place for the yard’s freight carrying diesels. He never really stuck around to see the mainliners come in and go out. Perhaps he didn’t want to tempt himself with something he knew he couldn’t have. 

"So you're happy with him?" 

One of the lead volunteer engineers with the historical society looked to the steamers to give a progress report on Strike's adjustments over the last month. 

Rusty nodded. 

"Yes, quite. He's a hard worker and he picks up on things quickly. We've been able to get a lot done since we haven't had to show him the routine too many times". 

"Good to hear. No incidents or behavioral issues?" 

Rusty got a bit tense at the question. 

"No sir, he's been well behaved", Poppa said confidently.

It was only a white lie really. Strike had been well behaved since that one incident on his first full day. He even stopped mouthing off so much (no doubt thanks to "Miss" Belle and his increased workload). Pulling and Pushing freight cars around (in a productive manner) seemed to give him a good outlet for his pent up stress. 

"Well that's great news", the engineer said pleasantly, "We've been thinking he might be ready to try his first excursion. We had plans with a museum in Illinois to have either of you meet the public up there. It's not too far so it would be a good start. We just want him to get one more physical check-up beforehand to make sure his engine's still holding up okay." 

The Historical Society got special permission for BNSF’s best mechanics to meet Strike at the nearest maintenance facility for a physical check-up before sending him out on his maiden excursion with the steamers.

Rusty graciously volunteered to escort Strike to the maintenance facility. 

“Strike! Hey Strike, wake up!” Rusty whispered hastily as he did his best to gently rouse the diesel from his sleep. 

Strike responded with a groan, but was refusing to move. 

“Come on we have to make sure we get you to your appointment on time!” 

“So some old, beer bellied mechanic can poke and prod my insides? No thanks, I think I’ll stay in bed”, Strike croaked before shoving a pillow over his head to try to block out the steamer. 

“Strike! C’mon you don’t have a choice!” Rusty said, allowing a touch of annoyance to come to his voice. 

“Noooo”, he groaned. 

“Don’t you want to go out and see things beyond the freight yard. It’s really nice out today”, Rusty persuaded. 

Strike just huffed in response. 

Rusty decided he had no choice but to try to physically remove the diesel from his berth instead. Sure Strike was heavy, but Rusty was an engine too, and should be able to move Strike provided he didn’t try to retaliate the action against him. He supposed it was worth a try. 

Rusty figured Strike’s leg would be the best point to try to remove him. Less risk of making him bump his head, and a bit harder to pull away from. 

Strike groaned but didn’t put up a fight as the steamer slowly dragged him out of bed. He surrendered his pillow in favor of grabbing the comforter. 

“Cold..” the diesel grumbled clinging to his last fleeting shadow of the warmth and comfort of his berth. 

“It’s not cold you big baby! Now come on.” 

Strike sighed in dismay, but slowly obeyed. Following Rusty out of his shed to be refueled. 

“Alright pal! Let’s get you outta here for the day!” Rusty chirped coupling to the diesel. Honestly if it were up to him, he’d be spending his days off lying around in his shed napping all day. But even if he wasn’t working, he had to obey their owners. 

He did have to admit, it was a nice day, though he wished he could have a run himself instead of riding behind Rusty all the way to the maintenance facility. Unfortunately, his lack of stability meant that that was a big no no. 

Upon arrival, Rusty and Strike were directed to a farther corner of the maintenance facility. Strike thanked his lucky stars that they chose somewhere quiet for him to be checked out. Rusty backed Strike in and waited with him for any further directions. 

One mechanic quickly looked Strike’s exterior over before looking down at his clipboard and flipping through the notes there. 

“Alright fella, Wrench should be here to do your evaluation in a few minutes”, he stated. 

“Wait Wrench is the one doing your evaluation?”

“You know this Wrench?” Strike asked the steamer. 

“Yeah, we met at the race two years ago, she was working privately for another engine, but I guess she came back to work for her old bosses after that engine fled and left his team behind”. 

“Huh,” Strike furrowed his brow.

As promised, a repair truck came into the shed. She was looking over her notes and at first paid no mind to the two engines. 

“So, Stri- Oh Rusty, you’re here,” Wrench said with a small semblance of pleasantness to her voice. 

“Hi Wrench, I was just dropping Strike here off for you,” Rusty said, moving toward the shed’s door. 

Strike found himself taking a fancy to the pretty repair truck. He straightened up his posture and puffed out his chest trying to make himself look bigger and stronger. 

“New diesel huh? Never thought I’d see the day of you adding a diesel to your team.” 

“Well, we needed some help around the yard and such”

“I see,” Wrench looked past Rusty to get her first good look at Strike, “He a rescue?” 

“I… suppose you could say that…” Rusty said somewhat confused. 

“Well I think it’s great you guys chose to adopt instead of buying from a breeder,” once more she looked past Rusty again to look at Strike, this time with a teasing smile on her face. 

She looked down again at her notes, “So you’re here for the spay/neuter clinic right?” 

Strike choked, losing his composure and looking at the repair truck wide eyed. 

She smiled stating dryly, “I’m kidding, relax”.

Strike came out of his shocked state to chuckle softly, “You, I like you.”

“Well I’ll guess I’ll give you some privacy…. so you start with the exam I mean”, Rusty said awkwardly excusing himself. 

“Alright then, let’s get you started for an external exam before we put you under for an internal”, Wrench stated in a business-like manner. 

“You have to knock me out, doc?”, the remainder of Strike's flirty facade notably fell away. 

“Well yes. I’ll take a peek in your chest box while you're still running to see things in motion, but If I want to get a closer look, specifically at your crankshaft, I’ll need it to be static so you don’t rip my arm off.”

“Well fair enough I guess”, Strike shrugged trying to let go of the tension he felt gripping his body. 

“I’ll start with your face then”

Wrench’s check was pretty routine for checking his auditory sensors. During the airway check, Strike started to cough. 

“That happen often?” she asked. 

“Yeah most mornings, especially when I’m started cold, but I work out of it”.

She quickly jotted something down on her clipboard. 

“Well that’s not ideal”, she stated, “has this been going on since you came out of storage?”

“E’yep” Strike's voice sounded somewhat humored, though his expression looked a bit more grave. 

“How long have you been dormant?” 

“Five years. I was dormant for three years, went on a handful of runs then went back into dormancy”. 

Wrench’s face twisted a bit, “It says you had your filters checked shortly after you were put back into service, but I should probably take another look. I’ll put that down as something to check when I do your internal exam. For now I’ll listen to your air flow to see what else could be contributing”. 

Wrench took out a stethoscope and held it to his chest and neck while asking him to breath deeply. 

“It does sound like you have some build up in your airways still. It could be anything from fluid accumulation to rusting. The former being an easier fix.The only real way to fix rusting is to replace those parts, and I don’t know if your bosses have the means to pay for new parts and installation for you right now.” 

Strike held his breath. 

Wrench went ahead continuing the rest of the exam. 

“I’ll need you to take your eye cover off for the eye exam”. 

Strike obeyed, and was relieved that Wrench didn’t react to his facial fracture. 

She placed a hand on the back of his head to steady him while she shone a light in his right eye, then his left. Strike instantly pulled away wincing with a hiss through his teeth when the light hit his left eye. He couldn’t close, or even squint it, so he had to cover it with his hand to get some relief. 

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to hurt you”, Wrench said apologetically, “Here, let me see. I won’t use the light this time”. 

He came back to face Wrench cautiously. She gently placed a cold hand on his cheek. She used her thumb to gently move his eyelids so she could get a better look at the structure of his eye. 

“Follow my finger”, Wrench held her other hand up with her index finger pointed as she moved it up, down, and side to side as she watched his eye roll to follow. She looked closely at the eye again trying to see how deep the fracture went. 

“Looks to me like that fracture goes all the way through. I’m honestly a bit surprised that you weren’t completely blinded. The source of your pain is the result of your eye being very photosensitive as the shell of your eye isn’t providing you with any protection against stronger light rays. I’d have to do a more extensive eye exam to see what your visibility actually is. Since you can’t close your eye I fear you may be at risk for more extensive damage and vision loss. I could, hypothetically speaking, get you a new eye, but since the fracture affects your ability to protect your eye, I fear it would just get damaged as well”. 

“So it would be better just to wait until I could get a full facial repair?”

“Exactly”. 

“Is that something that _could_ happen”.

“That would depend if they were willing to pay for it I’m afraid. I’ll put it on the table when I report to them”. 

“Alright” 

Wrench went forth testing Strike’s vision. Everything from deciphering shapes, letters, and colors, both near and far.

“Well the good news is you _can_ see. The bad news is, you can’t see perfectly. Your color and basic shape vision is fine. You can see movement fine, you just can’t make out specific details with that left eye. You’re right eye is a-okay as expected though. As far as your eye health goes, I recommend keeping it covered as much as possible and keeping it clean and lubricated to avoid further damage”. 

Strike nodded. 

Wrench finished the physical exam, looking at Strike’s joints, wheels, fluid levels and contents, and external structures making sure there were no signs of extensive wear or denting. 

“Alright, last order of business is to open up your chest box and see how your engine is running”. 

Wrench’s expression notably softened upon seeing and hearing that running engine, despite trying to hide it. For now it sounded and looked fine. A 645E3, the original engine seen in SD45s. As of now there were still locomotives of the 45 class running the rails, mostly as freight servers, but Wrench could tell they were a dying breed as reliability issues were quite common. The lifespan of these engines was not long. They were good engines, but they weren’t being manufactured anymore and were notably being sent to scrap more quickly than most diesels.

Wrench knew his story, but tried not to let on that she did. She was working for Atkinson, Topeka, and Santa Fe at this time as a repair truck fresh out of training. She was present at the tournament where Strike broke down. She had gone back home before this race as none of her engines were running anymore, though she still watched the race from the comfort of her own shed. She did not see the crash as the cameras did not show it, probably knowing something bad was going to happen, but the results of the crash where all anyone could talk about after the fact. What she did see and remember clear as day was that match battle between Greaseball, and young Strike was the younger diesel abruptly decelerating and reaching to clutch his chest. The sight of seeing a young engine experience a major breakdown during a race made Wrench feel like she dropped twenty feet, even if he was under rival ownership. No doubt this was very bad publicity for Strike’s class. 

SP was the leading buyer of this class of engine, buying over twice as many engines as the Penn, which was the second leading buyer. ATSF was third leading. While some other companies had some bias against them, they were well loved engines by ATSF and SP. So much so that a large chunk of their fleet was engines of this class. ATSF ended up overhauling these types of engines to help improve their longevity, but they were basically the same engines nonetheless. SD45s were great workhorses, being able to carry freight over the mountainous terrain with ease. The improved SD45T-2 was an SP exclusive which could do the job even better due to improved cooling systems. While most other companies shied away, SP really loved their 3,600 horsepower engines. Wrench knew these guys well as a result of their popularity with ATSF as well. While their fleets consisted heavily of these engines, issues were actually pretty few for these two companies statistically speaking. They were kept well maintained, and the work seemed to be exactly what these engines were built for.

Strike's paperwork indicated a 1974 build date, likely descended from the original 45s. He was only 20 years old when his engine failed, this was abnormally young to have this nature of failure. Grated age of rolling stock is determined by many factors including maintenance and mileage, and it's heavily variable on an individual level. However, even in heavy use, 20 years should not have that severe of an impact on his engine. What really made Wrench really scratch her head was that SD45s built later where being given stronger engine blocks to avoid the flexion which caused the crankshaft failures in the earlier builds. Either Strike really had a talent for pushing his engine too hard, or he drew a terrible hand when getting his engine installed. 

It wasn't unusual for engines to feel and look a bit stressed for a manual systems shut down. There was the rare risk that something could go wrong and the engine would not start again, but engines being scrapped for this reason were even rarer, in most cases at least. Plus, being hooked to the repair table made it seem all the more torturous. Strike, however, didn't appear too stressed. Either he genuinely didn't care or he was good at hiding it. Looking at his engine's readings on the monitor next to her seemed to strongly indicate the later. Despite his deadpan appearance, his rpms showed he had a case of white coat syndrome. 

Once Strike was fastened to the repair table, Wrench had him hooked up his battery line for shut down, allowing the engine's humming to come to a quick but gentle stop. Strike was dormant. 

Wrench opened up his chest box once more. As she thought, this engine was the original 645E3 that was given to him in '74. Wrench thought this extremely odd. At first she thought it might just be a new engine from the same build year, put in to replace the damaged one. But no, the serial number was the exact same. Why on earth was Strike running without a fully replaced engine? There was an intact crankshaft, naturally. If it weren’t he’d be the walking dead. The nature of Strike's breakdown was a result of the crankshaft wearing down and snapping under pressure from the engine block due to how powerful it was. They really did just bandaid the issue. They must have just put a new crankshaft in, which would allow Strike to run, but not fix the underlying problem. Especially now, the structure of Strike's engine itself was been worn down and altered by its own power. There is no surefire fix for this particular issue as it’s caused by many different structural aspects of the engine. Needless to say, the prognosis for Strike's current state was more shady than Wrench felt comfortable with. For now the crank looked okay at face value but it had only really been used for a little over a months worth of work. Worse yet there were quite a few holes in his mechanic records. She didn't know if they were lost in the shuffle between transfers or purposefully omitted, but the bottom line was she didn't know his whole history. 

As promised before, Wrench went forward with checking Strike's ventilation system. What she found wasn't ideal, but also wasn't a worst case scenario. Hose leaks ended up being the culprit causing his airways to gunk up. His airways could be flushed, and as it seemed to be mostly a connective issue rather than the hoses themselves, it only really requires a few new bolts and screws, and that was fairly good news. 

Before she could go forward with anything, she would need to report back to the engineering heads with the historical society. This scared her however. Given the potential problems of Strike's engine, she would have a hard time holding up her professional expectations while convincing them to keep him. If he where a BNSF engine, even just a yard switcher, she would say no go on work of any kind, but BNSF was a corporation who has the means to repair broken engines as soon as they were broken. By the looks of it they never got Strike appraised before purchasing him, but even so it was highly likely that the cost of his repairs would be more than they bought him for. Wrench did not like the idea of damning a still kicking engine to scrap. Naturally if it did come to that, she would disable his battery so he would be unaware of the whole thing. 

She could just tell them everything upfront one hundred percent as is,without waking Strike from his induced dormancy and send him to scrap _today_ , but her conscience grew much too guilty for that. Strike let her put him under with the good faith that she would wake him back up. Wrench may have been a hard one, but she wasn't a heartless monster. 

This engine who had been neglected, and likely feared what his new owners would do to him, placed his trust in her. No way could she betray him. 

She left the shed, leaving Strike still dormant, to find the steamer who had accompanied him. 

Rusty was waiting idly a small distance away from the repair shed. 

"Rusty", she called him. 

Rusty turned around and looked up to Wrench, as she stood halfway out the door to the shed. 

She gestured for him to follow her inside. 

Rusty was quite curious to know what Wrench wanted him to come in for. He couldn’t help but fear whatever the reason was. 

Wrench led him to a separate room at the front of the shed. The room was very plain, no decor, no nothing. Just a window, a chair and a desk. The room was as deadpan as Wrench’s expression as she closed the door, invited the steamer to sit down, and took a seat at the desk. 

“I’m not gonna lie Rusty, I don’t know if I can clear him”. 

Rusty’s face went from mildly hopeful to broken. Wrench looked down, not wanting to meet his face. 

“If I can’t clear him, does that mean the worst?”

“Most likely”, Rusty crackled

Wrench took in a deep breath.

“It really is a shame. I swear that breakdown is a fluke.”

“What do you mean? I was told his class had issues like this frequently.”

“It shouldn’t have happened to him. Strike’s build date was 1974, this is the very tail end of any variation of 45's production. The Electric Motor Division reinforced the engine block on later engines to eliminate these kinds of crankshaft failures. While it still can happen, 45s are significantly more powerful than any other single engine locomotive built at the time, it was less likely to happen to him. Strike just got very, very unlucky, and while he was still young nonetheless. They never replaced his engine, just the crankshaft itself. While breakdown occurs as a result of the crankshaft wearing and breaking, the rest of his engine will also experience wear, and the breakage itself causes physical damage to the engine. In other words, he’s pretty unstable and likely to experience another breakdown with time.” 

Rusty sighed, removing his hat and running his hands through is messy brown hair. 

“Wrench, isn’t there something we can do?”

“Hypothetically speaking, Strike could have an engine replacement, but getting a new engine and having it installed is difficult and costly. Plus we couldn’t really just replace the engine, he really needs to have his face repaired as well. It’s okay for switching and lending his generator, but if we want to allow him to run at higher speeds, he needs better visibility. Unless his replacement engine is less powerful, he should really have reinforcements on his frame to take the power. We could give him a 16 cylinder engine instead of a 20 like the one he has, but drastically changing the engine type could result in compatibility issues. I don’t know exactly what your bosses paid for him, but they cut a lot of corners which leads me to believe it wasn’t much. These repairs and alterations could cost well more than they paid for him.” 

Rusty briefly put his hands up in surrender, shaking his head, “What now?”.

“I can try to buy Strike some time, but I can’t make any promises. I need to report what I found to them, I have my own job and reputation as a repair truck to maintain. I can’t go pulling a fast one on clients. What I can do is try to convince them that he can do the light work they bought him for, and then I can work on repairing his hoses, which have some minor issues. If they approve I can do some asking around. Since the society is a non-profit there is a chance I could get a donation of parts, maybe even an engine.” 

Rusty nodded. “Thanks Wrench”

“I can promise you that I’ll do everything in my power to help”. Wrench stood up and placed a firm hand on Rusty’s shoulder before leaving him alone to make some calls and send a fax.


	5. Touch the Starlight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> About time we have Strike's first meeting with Pearl.

"Hey that's Arcturus right? The one that's twinkling?" 

Hot Shot felt Strike shift a bit under him. That minuscule spark of energy he gets when he sees something exciting to him. His eyes followed Strike's fingers to the star in question.

Hot Shot tipped his head back to look at Strike's face. The engine's bright eyes didn't stray from his gaze at the sky.

"Mmhmm, that's the one! That your favorite? You always seem to be looking for it." 

"Yeah."

Strike paused admiring the view of the bright star. 

"You think that's where he's living now?"

"Who?"

"Arcturus? You think engines who share their names with stars get to live there?"

Hot Shot looked at Strike with a loving curiosity. 

"You believe those Starlight Express stories still?"

Strike looked down at Hot Shot, meeting him face-to-face and cocked his head. 

"You don't?" 

"Well.. I always thought they were just fairytales told to us when we were young. But who knows, maybe you're right." 

"Why do you think not? Just curious." 

"I don't know, I feel like the universe is just too random to be influenced by a magic space train." 

Strike chuckled softly "It does sound silly when you put it that way." 

"Well there's a lot about the universe we don't know so maybe you're right."

Strike looked back toward the sky. He kept one arm draped over his boyfriend's chest as he placed one hand on his chin. His face hardened in thought. 

"I hope we end up in those two. But I call the reddish one." 

"You always call red things."

Strike shrugged, "It's my favorite color. But that way we'll get to be next to each other." 

Hot Shot sat up while laughing softly to give his boyfriend a peck on the cheek.

"Hate to break it to you, Strike, but Pollux and Castor are many lightyears apart from each other."

"Really?" 

"Looks like a good time to start another astronomy lesson". 

Strike shifted himself once more. 

"Hey Strike, let me take this one" 

"It's fine I can handle it", was clearly annoyed at Rusty's attempt to butt into his work. 

"At least let me help."

"I work alone." 

"Strike, you remember what Wrench said. You can't get your engine worked up too much." 

Strike rolled his eyes but obliged in letting Rusty take over for him. He hated having to act like he was made of glass. He was a diesel engine for Starlight's sake. Diesels are supposed to be tough and strong, not sickly little flowers. He just hoped Wrench could find what she needed to fix him fast. 

Clearly Wrench had a way with words, because she somehow managed to persuade the historical society to let Strike continue work and let her fix his leaky hoses despite all of his issues. Now they were gearing up to bring Strike on his maiden excursion with Rusty. 

Strike was not looking forward to seeing a large crowd. The small groups that shuffled around the museum back in California were more than enough for him. He was sure comments would be exchanged, especially given that he bore the damage from the wreck where all could see. 

Rusty and Strike were able to finish their day's work early so they could be prepared for the trip the next day. They were both brought to the wash racks to get them looking "presentable". Strike couldn't help but think that bathing them was like putting lipstick on a pig at this point. One engine had a busted face and the other was covered head to toe with rust. 

"Don't scrub him too hard boys you'll take off whatever paint he has left", Strike commented to the workers washing Rusty. 

Rusty gave Strike his best attempt at a death glare. Though the diesel couldn't help but smile smuggly at the adorable little engine's feistiness. 

"Don't be a smartass Strike."

"Don't worry you have to be smart to be a smartass. I'm just being a regular ass" 

Rusty let out an exasperated sigh, "Well you better not be an ass _all_ weekend. I would appreciate being able to have some peaceful downtime with Pearl." 

"Who's Pearl, your girl?" 

Rusty blushed bashfully, "My sweetheart, yes."

"Didn't realize I was playing third wheel." 

Rusty touched the back of his neck, "Well we don't _mean_ to put you in that spot, it just kind of ended up that way." 

"So you make me a third wheel _and_ expect me not to be an ass? Sounds like way too much of a tall order to me." 

"Strike! …...I didn't say _at all_ per se, I know it's kind of second nature at this point, but just try toning it down." 

"You're gonna have to be more specific." 

"Fine, you are allowed three snarky comments per day." 

Strike clicked his tongue, "Make it five." 

"Four." 

"Deal." 

Holding Pearl’s hand always had a way of making Rusty melt.

“I’m excited! It’s the first time we’ve gotten to travel together for a while!” Rusty said with a smile. 

“Just you and me! I can’t wait!” Pearl chirped. 

Rusty’s smile lessened a bit, “Well you, me, and Strike..”. 

“Strike?.... Oh is that the diesel engine you told me your bosses were buying?”

“Yeah that’s him.” 

“Well what’s he like, you’ve been working with him haven’t you?”

“Yeah, he’s not a bad guy, really. He’s been through some stuff in his past life, but it’s kind of like having an annoying big brother around” Rusty said with a humored eye roll. 

"Oh what kind of stuff?" Pearl's expression softened into one of concern. 

Rusty paused. 

"I don't know if I should tell you, Pearl…"

"Is it that bad?" 

"Well, it's a sensitive topic for him, not sure he’ll be okay with me telling personal stuff about him willy-nilly, y'know." 

“Oh… I understand..”

“I’ll just say he was in an accident and still has damage from it. Just don’t bring it up, he’s really touchy about it.” 

“Gosh…” 

“I’ll be honest, when I heard that the society wanted to get a diesel engine, I was a bit apprehensive,” Rusty continued, “I spent much of my life being thrown around by Greaseball and his gang. I know he’s been better since the race two years ago, I wasn’t sure how I felt about bringing a new diesel engine in. I was kind of afraid it would be the same deal as before.” 

Pearl’s eyes dropped. She couldn’t deny she still had a pang of guilt over that whole situation. Rusty had assured her that Greaseball used her, and there was not much she could do at the time, but she still felt bad. 

“But, the more I got to know the guy, the more I figured out we’re more alike than we are different. Diesels and steamers have a history of going together like oil and water. But, at the end of the day, we’re both just engines trying to do our jobs well enough to continue running the rails.”

“There’ll always be stronger engines out there, after all….”

Rusty jumped and turned around to meet the aforementioned locomotive, “Oh-oh hey Strike, I didn’t notice you”. 

“Just got here. I’m surprised you didn’t hear me coming a mile away. Diesels aren’t exactly quiet y’know.” 

“I guess I was just caught up in my conversation with Pearl”, Rusty scratched the back of his neck nervously, “Oh,um, how long were you eavesdropping?”

“Just heard som’in’ about engines working well enough to keep running the rails. Why? Were ya talkin’ about me?” 

“Well I was just telling Pearl a little about you. Good things only I promise! N-not that I really have anything bad to say about you of course!”

“Calm yourself, steamer, I’m not here to bend you in half y’know. It’d probably do you some good to not act so squirrely with your coach around.” 

“Sorry, just a little anxious with the whole meeting the public, and introducing you two thing. Oh! Speaking of which, Pearl, this is Strike, Strike, this is Pearl.” 

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Strike”, Pearl gave the diesel a bright bubbly smile. 

Strike couldn’t fight the urge to give the observation car a small smile, “The pleasure is all mine, dear.” 

“I’m so excited! This should be a great weekend! Hopefully we’ll get to meet lots of new people! And we can get to know each other better”, Pearl moved a bit closer to the diesel, beginning to visibly bounce with each spoken syllable, “What about you Strike?”

“Pearl-” Rusty tried to interject before Strike cut him off.

“I’ll admit I have a bit of stage fright, but maybe it won’t be so bad with your energy, Pearly.” 

“Oh no! Don’t be nervous, I’ll help for sure!” 

“Thank you, dear, you’re putting me at ease already. I admire your courage,” Strike did his best to sound earnest so Rusty wouldn’t think that he was trying to flirt with his coach. He was never good at talking to new coaches without it sounding like he was trying to flirt with them. He’s gotten punched in the face by a few engines for this reason.

 _Well at least they seem to be hitting it off okay_ Rusty thought with a small shrug. 

****  
  


Pearl trying to make idle chit chat on the way to their stop did help calm his nerves a bit. He was never a great conversationalist, but at least it kept his mind off of things. Giving himself too much time to think was when his mind went to dark places. He didn’t fully realize how bad being seen by a crowd scared him, until the anticipation started to build up.

_What’s wrong with me? I was never this frightened before…_

If Strike was nervous before, he was petrified once he saw all of the people standing at the depot waiting for them. As Rusty slowed to a halt, it felt like the longest deceleration of Strike’s life. 

Strike felt like he had a brick sitting in his stomach as he looked at the railfans and they looked back at him. 

_This is completely humiliating…_ He thought. He couldn’t hear that clearly over a sea of whispers and chatter but a few comments he did pick up included;

“Way to ruin a perfectly good classical engine and coach exhibition with a diesel engine, and a broken one nonethelesss.” 

“You think he got that on the way here?”

“If they wanted an SD45 you think they could have gotten a better one than that. There’s plenty of those things floating around.”

“Did they really hardly repair that engine from that crash? We’re here to see the steamer and classic coach, having to look at him and think of that crash is really distracting don’t you think?” 

_About what I figured but I’m still disappointed…_

Rusty was afraid Strike was getting mad, but he just looked…. defeated….

“Hey, don’t let them get to you Strike!” Pearl whispered trying to cheer her new friend up. Pearl’s words didn’t seem to console him much. 

Rusty put a hand on Strike’s shoulder, trying his best to comfort him, “Hey it’s okay, pal, they’ll warm up to you I’m sure…”

If nothing else, Rusty’s touch calmed him a little. He could try to tough it out until he was old news for the sake of the two. And well, what other choice did he have but to put up with it if he wanted to keep living? 

How long until he pushed himself to another breaking point?

Things would only get worse when the president of the historical society made an address to the attendees. 

“First order of business is that we would like to welcome and thank you all for coming to meet our engines. While I know our 0503, class 0-8-0 steam engine is the main attraction of today’s excursion, we’ve also added a brand new engine to our roster. Today, former Southern Pacific SD45T-2 engine 9357 makes his debut appearance after being kept in stationary storage for the last five years. We are happy to be welcoming him back to the rails to help us keep our excursions running”.

_Starlight why do you feel the need to draw so much attention to me?_

“Before we continue on the matter of 0503, we wanted 9357 to have a proper welcome to the fleet. While he may not be much to look at at this time-”

Strike’s face twisted.

“He has been and will be a valuable member to our team, making more frequent and longer distance excursions possible in the future. So without further adieu we will initiate 9357’s maiden excursion with our Historical Society.” 

Rusty visibly winced as one of the engineers broke a bottle of champagne over Strike head. Strike did not react. 

The applause were awkwardly quiet and brief as the bubbly liquid slowly dripped down Strike’s hardened, stoic face. 

“Now on the matter of 0503. As many, if not all of you, know well, 0503 was the champion in the 2000 World Locomotive Racing Championship, beating both an Amtrak electric and the five time World Champion Union Pacific DD40AX locomotive.”

Strike’s eye got slightly wider. 

“This is an incredible accomplishment, not only for a steam engine, but for a 0-8-0 class yard switcher carrying a heavy hopper to the finish. Many regard this finish as a miracle, but what can’t be denied is that 0503, known affectionately as ‘Rusty’ is no ordinary engine, steamer or otherwise. It’s for this reason that we ask for continued support in helping us to raise funds to give this engine a proper refurbishment. Not only one which will get him looking his best, but one which will allow us to provide him with high speed axles better suited to a continued racing career. Once again, thank you for showing your support and we look forward to letting 0503 strut his stuff for you.” 

The applause were significantly more enthused this time around. 

Strike tried to spend the rest of his evening cooped up in his livery shed. It was only fair that he let the happy couple get some alone time in. But, really he didn’t want to be alone. He needed attention that wasn’t hatred and mocking. It was tearing him apart. To the humans he was just a big stupid machine. Little more than a broken toy that needed to be thrown out. At the end of the day that _was_ all he really was anyways. 

Strike heard a soft knock on the door to his livery stall. 

He got up slowly to answer it. 

As he expected it was Rusty and Pearl. 

“Hey pal, hope we didn’t wake you”, Rusty said smiling softly. 

“Nah, I was awake”

“We just wanted to ask if you’d like to come stargazing with us.”

_Stargazing huh? It’s been a while..._

“If you just want to try to get some rest we totally understand.”

“I’m not that tired, sure why not.” 

To his surprise Rusty and Pearl seemed intent on having Strike lounge between them. 

“It’s so nice, you can see so many stars out around here,” Pearl noted. 

“Not much light pollution out in the stix,” Strike replied. 

“What’s light pollution?” Pearl asked.

“It’s when light from nearby sources like cities causes a lot of light to reflect in the atmosphere. It gets in the way of your ability to see stars”.

“Oh, I get it”

“You see that cloudy line that extends all the way across the sky?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s the Milky Way galaxy. What we can see of it anyways. Since we live in it we can only really guess what it looks like. It’s like if you never left your shed you wouldn’t really know exactly what the outside of it looks like. You could only guess based on what you can see from the inside, and what other sheds around you look like.”

“Wow! That’s so interesting! What else do you see, Strike?” Pearl looked between the diesel and the sky fascinated. 

Strike took a moment to scan the sky. 

“There it is. Arcturus. You see that star twinkling over there? That’s Arcturus; it's one of the brightest stars in the sky. If you ever want to find it just look for the Big Dipper. If you follow the handle it will point right to it.” 

“You seem to know quite a bit about stars, Strike,” Rusty stated in admiration. 

Strike’s smile melted a bit, “Yeah, my own love taught me all about astronomy when we were young.” 

Strike decided to take out the clipping of him and Hot Shot to show to Rusty and Pearl. 

“That’s us. We were racing teammates and, well, rivals too I guess since we’re both engines. His name was Hot Shot, he was a general purpose engine used for passenger service. I’m a special duty engine made to take heavy freight. I was more powerful, but he was more sleek. We made a good team when we raced rival teams together…” 

Strike looked and sounded quite sullen despite the positivity of his words. 

_Something happened to him…_ Rusty thought. Rusty never wanted to pry on Strike’s past. He knew next to nothing about it other than he had a breakdown,crash, and largely blamed himself for it. 

He looked at the clipping then turned his eyes to see Strike laying on his back and looking mournfully down toward his stomach, blinking slowly. Most of the time, memories of the past made Strike’s expression harden into defensive anger. This one was of the few times Rusty saw Strike look truly hopeless. He handed the picture back to him. Strike took it back, not moving his eyes or face. 

Strike took a long moment of silence. Rusty and Pearl didn’t dare make a peep during this.

“Arcturus was the name of an SP steam racer you know.”

Rusty perked up once more, “Really?”

“Yeah, a 4-8-4 GS-4 class. A real handsome locomotive. He could travel just as fast as any diesel from what I’ve heard. My old coach was his racing partner. He was retired well before my build so I never met him myself, but I heard a lot of stories about him. He was a legend on the Southern Pacific, even into the age of diesel.” 

“He sounds amazing!” Pearl gasped. 

“He was. Sadly he didn’t live a very long life, the GS-4 class only lasted seventeen years, but legend has it, he never lost a single race in his whole career.” 

“Gosh that does sound amazing.” Rusty said. 

Strike paused once more a moment. 

“How’d you do it Rusty?”

“Who me?”

“You’re the only one named Rusty here. I ran against Greaseball myself as you know. He wasn’t an easy run for me, and I’m a diesel mainliner.”

Rusty shrugged. “Guess I just caught my fish that day. Poppa certainly helped. He got me to the final and taught me everything he knew. He was a racing champion himself back in the day.” 

Strike hummed. Not quite the answer he was looking for, but he’ll take it. 

Rusty yawned, “I think it’s about time we turn in for the night don’t you think.”

“Yeah, I’m pretty tired too.” Pearl replied. 

Strike hummed in response. 

The three returned to the livery yard where Rusty and Pearl exchanged a goodnight kiss. 

“Goodnight love,” Rusty said once more as he stood at the door to his stall. 

“G’night shnookums,” Strike responded, earning a giggle from Pearl. 

“S _trike!_ ” Rusty groaned. 


	6. Of Wheels and Rails

Due to his schedule, Strike never found himself able to sleep in, even on his days off he'd just lie awake for several hours, trying to fall back asleep to no avail. However, he did enjoy spending his days off doing nothing but eating his meals and napping between them. He'd go on the occasional stroll in the mornings or evenings if it was nice out but otherwise he'd mostly stay in his shed all day with no intent on going anywhere. 

Today he decided he would lounge on the bench in front of his shed for his midmorning nap. He wore an orange BNSF trucker hat, pulling the visor over his face to block out the sun as he dozed off in the warmth. 

He didn't know how long he'd been resting when he was woken by the sound of Flat-Top's voice. 

"'Ey Strike... You awake?" 

"I am now. What is it?" 

Flat-Top's voice seemed a bit worn out still. Strike treated the freight to drinks last night while Rusty and Pearl were having a date night. Flat-Top went pretty ham on Strike's generosity, and Strike never made the effort to slow him down (he felt like he owed the guy afterall). But, no doubt the punk was still feeling a nasty hangover. He didn't even show up to breakfast. 

"Rusty just wanted to pass on the word that he's going to join Pearl and the coaches for lunch. He thought it be a good chance for you to meet 'em". 

Strike lifted his cap off his face to peek at Flat-Top.

"Coaches eh? Don't see much of those off the racing circuit". 

"Hey I envy you but Rusty didn't extend the invite to me. So inconsiderate."

"He said lunch, right? Could you even stomach to look at food at this point?" 

"Hey, I wouldn't even notice the grub." 

Strike chuckled softly, "Well, tell Rusty I'll only be there if food is provided." 

"So typical of you Strike, always thinking of food before anything else"

"Hey, fastest way to my heart is through my stomach", he shrugged, covering his eyes once more. 

He tried to doze off for about fifteen minutes after Flat Top left, but getting woken up seemed to jumpstart his engine a bit too well. 

_ Suppose it wouldn't hurt to get up and move around a bit. _

As Strike strolled around the hump yard a brief breeze brought the sound of Poppa's commanding voice to his auditory sensors. He couldn't quite make out what he was saying, but it wasn't a tone Strike heard often. It sounded like he was trying to give some kind of instruction. Strike followed the sound until it became a bit clearer. He didn't mean to go snooping around, but it's not like he had anywhere better to go. 

Poppa's voice led him to the edge of the yard down the hill it sat upon where there was a moderately sized training track. Not like the huge ones Strike was used to back in his prime, but he supposed it served its purpose. 

Rusty ran the track, huffing away, piston rods rolling as fast as he could make them go on the straight. For a mainliner his speed didn’t seem that impressive, but granted he was a born switcher engine, his speed was actually pretty noteworthy. He had to be going over sixty on that small track, about double the speed a steam switcher should be able to go. 

_ Damn what are they stokin’ that boy with these days?  _

Granted speed was not the only factor when it came to races. If races were won by speed alone, there wouldn’t even be a point in anything but high speed passenger hauling electrics running. But, strategy, endurance, and the ability to take a hit were also major factors. While diesels are generally on the slower side, especially heavyweight freighters like Strike, what they lack in speed and adjustability they make up for in strength and grit. The high speed electrics tended to be more delicate, and, since many were new to the racing circuit, lacking in experience and guidance for executing good strategy. 

Race tracks were heavily geography dependent. In some regions, electrics weren’t even able to run the smaller races due to lack of power lines over the tracks. Most of the country’s electrics were runners in the east, riding along long, relatively flat lines with few curves. Diesel routes would vary. Some breeds of passenger diesels rode similar to electrics, carrying light passenger loads over relatively easy to handle terrain. Since freight companies would often cover larger areas, freight carrying diesel breeds would be more used to covering a wider variety of tracks. Southern Pacific, for instance, tackled everything from flat coastal Southern California to the Rocky Mountains. The Rockies provided likely the nation’s most challenging conditions for railroading, and powerful heavyweight engines like SD45s were favored for these freighting jobs. 

Strike had only ever raced other diesels as most companies in the Southwest had retired their steamers in favor of diesel service, and the race tracks weren’t even equipped for electrics. Mountain races were for sure Strike’s forte. They probably weren’t the fastest races to run, but they were certainly a battle of beasts. 

Strike closed his eyes and inhaled the smell of Rusty’s strained smoke as he remembered the sensations of running the first race of a new season. The spring equinox had come and gone, but snow still pelted the mountains. Strike was part of a stampede of heavyweight steel horses trudging their boxcar and hopper companions up the mountainside. The inside of Strike’s racing helmet was soaked with sweat and water vapor turned liquid by the frigid air. He and the other racers had icicles hanging from their visors, creating the illusion of jagged teeth. These combined with their hot, exhaust breath billowing out gave the engines the appearance of dragons snorting smoke as they charged on, plowing their way through the snow covered tracks. To Strike, that fight up that snowy mountain was what a race ought to look like. A true display of strength, hardheadedness, and raw power. 

Strike came back to reality, shaking his head. 

_ Positive thoughts about racing? Don’t tell me… _

It wasn’t like him to reminisce on the good times. Why the hell did he think he deserved to? It was racing that destroyed his life in the first place. And it was all his fault…

He looked back down on Rusty, Poppa giving him a clap on the back as he cooled down from his set.

_ I’ll do the world a favor, and leave the racing to him and keep my sorry ass clear of any race tracks. _

He turned away from the training track, intending to never look back at it for the rest of his life in the freight yard. 

As Rusty was wiping the sweat off his brow with a rag, he looked up toward the top of the hill above the track and noticed Strike turning away. 

“Was he watching me practice?” 

Strike clearly had a history of racing, one Rusty honestly knew very little about. Strike didn’t really like talking about it. Rusty couldn’t help but wonder what was running through Strike’s head. Regardless, he should probably go catch up with him. 

Strike was rolling back to his shed when Rusty ran up next to him. He was clearly still a bit winded from his run. 

“Rus-”

“Before you ask, yes food will be provided”, Rusty said, putting a hand up to interrupt Strike. 

“Alright, alright I’ll go.” 

“Well good, if you said no I’d probably find a way to drag you anyway” 

Strike quickly looked Rusty up and down.

“Damn I’m shaking.” 

“Hey don’t underestimate me, I can easily drag three of you”. 

“Not if I lay on the dynamic breaks or pull against you can’t. I could drag you struggling to Alaska at a hundred miles an hour if I really wanted to, my tractive force is immense.” 

“Well we can have a coupling tug o war later. We can go to the depot cafe as soon as I’m cleaned up.” 

Rusty turned away from Strike, heading in the direction of the washracks before he quietly spoke up.

“Hey….”

Strike paused stiffly. 

“....If you saw me run, what did you think?” Once the question left his mouth, Rusty’s lips were glued tightly together. 

Strike didn’t make a sound for several seconds. 

“Why ask me? You won a World Championship, not me”. 

“You’ve been on the racing circuit with world class instructors, and raced a different era than Poppa. I was just curious about what it looks like in your eyes.” 

Strike sighed. 

“You’ve got serious speed for a switcher. That being said you need to watch yourself or you’ll end up with busted axles. Switcher axles aren’t made for high speeds and you’ll wear them out if you keep pushing sprints. Don’t be stupid and make the same mistake I did. Learn to be a good offensive and defensive fighter, and practice calculating your routes and moves quickly. Use your sprints sparingly and for short bursts only if at all. Just make sure the accelerations aren’t too sharp, especially if the tracks are wet or icy or you might slip a wheel on yourself or your partner. I’m not gonna preach, but keep in mind you're trying to be something you aren’t. This doesn’t mean you can’t race, it just means you have to think of racing differently than engines who are built for it. Some supplemental oil on your bearings would probably be wise to prevent excessive wear.”

Rusty took a moment to take all of what Strike said in. 

“.... I see… Thanks, I’ll keep that in mind.”

A soft grunt was Strike’s only response. 

The depot cafe was a lot more frufru than Strike typically liked to be seen in, but who cares there's food and that’s all that really matters. The lifestyle of coaches was quite a different world from that of freight haulers like Strike. Had he not had the prestige of a racing engine, the high class gals (what Strike considered high class at least) working as coaches would probably never want to be seen with a crusty freighter like him. He wasn’t as clean and sleek as passenger engines. 

Strike followed Rusty into the courtyard, looking off to the side at nothing to avoid any semblance of eye contact with the coach. Stance hunched with his thumbs in his belt. 

“Hi girls, thanks for having us!” 

“Hey we figured we haven’t chatted for a while, so why not?” 

Strike rolled his eye toward the coaches and recognized the coach speaking as a buffet car. 

“Besides, Pearly wouldn’t stop bugging us about the opportunity to introduce us to a new friend. I assume the stocky fella behind you is the man in question.” the buffet car was followed up by a smoking car. 

_ Smoking car? I’m surprised to see one still hangin’ around. They can’t exactly be converted unless your passengers are fond of the smell of cigarette smoke.  _

Strike tipped his head forward slightly to get a better look at the coaches. Once Pearl noticed him looking in their direction she grinned brightly and waved to him. 

Strike couldn’t help but surrender to a small smile and wave back with one quick flick of the wrist. 

Rusty looked back toward Strike gesturing for him to introduce himself. Strike balked, looking a bit like a deer in the headlights for a second before hardening his face into a pout and looking away once more. 

“Don’t be shy, cutie, aren’t you gonna introduce yourself?” asked the buffet car with a flirty wink. 

Strike stiffened through his back, this time an amber blush coming to his face. He faced forward hunching over even more, placing a hand behind his neck. 

With his eyes still averted he spoke up, “I’m Strike, I’m a freight diesel”. 

“Well it’s nice to meet ya, sugar. Pearly’s been telling us all about you.”

_ Is there really much to say about me at all? _

“I’m Ashley the smoking car.” 

“And I’m Buffy the buffet car. You’ll meet Dinah later, she insisted on taking over the kitchen so she could cook our lunches for us.” 

_ Dinah…. Have I heard that name before? _

Pearl sat between two empty seats at the table and beckoned the two engines over to sit down. Rusty happily obliged leaning in to give Pearl a quick peck on the cheek as he took the seat to her right. Strike slowly lumbered into the seat to her left. 

“Glad you could make it Strike,” Pearl said with a friendly smile. 

Strike once more surrendered a small smile to the young observation car, “Thanks for the invitation.” 

“So, you two got any races planned soon?” Buffy asked Rusty and Pearl. 

“Oh yeah! The Omaha Classic is coming up next month, that always draws a big crowd!” Rusty answered eagerly. 

“It will be us against the UP and Burlington Northern teams!” Pearl continued. 

Strike stayed quiet. As much as he didn’t want to hear on the topic of racing, it was only fair to let them have their fun. That was until the accursed question fell upon him. 

“What about you, Strike, ever had any interest in racing?” Ashley asked. 

Strike was kind of surprised that a coach as old as Ashley didn’t know of him. Looks like Pearl kept the whole racing thing a secret. He appreciated it, but it put him in an awkward situation on deciding how to explain himself. 

Strike hid his tension with a click of the tongue as he lounged back in his seat with his hands behind his head, “Naw, never raced, never will. My engine’s broke down a few times so I can’t push myself to that extent. Heck, I’m in too poor health to do freighting, I’m a yard switcher now.” 

“Oh, we’re sorry”, Buffy apologized.

“It’s whatever,” Strike sighed. 

“Aw Rusty you made it is ther-” a blond dining car approached the table to greet the new arrivals but stopped in her tracks when she laid her eyes on Strike. Her face was pale and frozen like she was looking at a ghost. 

Strike met the dining car’s face, his eyes widening. 

“Dinah… is everything alright?” Ashley asked. 

“Yeah, I just…. I’ll be right back-ouch!” Dinah backed away stiffly right into another set table. 

Rusty and Pearl looked quickly between Strike and Dinah unsure what was going on and unsure how to react. 

“Dinah? You alright I heard a-....” 

_ Oh no… _ Rusty’s insides flipped. 

The steamer jumped when he heard Strike’s engine growl in response to a certain other diesel engine standing in the doorway. 


	7. Ghosts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took me a while to finish as I wanted to cover a lot of bases. It's a long one but hopefully a good read! A little bit of vulgar language is being thrown around in this chapter just to let you know.

Hot oil splattered Strike's face as he hooked the older engine across the face. Unfortunately for him, Greaseball was significantly larger and stronger than he was. Still, Strike was not one to back down from a fight even if he lost. Heck he's gone out of his way to pick fights he knew he'd lose, just for the joy of the fight. 

Greaseball grabbed Strike's head, throwing his face down onto his knee. Strike's eye clamped shut as he felt the sting of impact followed by an intense tingling heat. That was for sure going to be a black eye the next morning. 

Strike retaliated with an uppercut, causing Greaseball to bite his lip. More amber fluid began to dribble down his cleft chin. 

In a quick fluid motion, Strike grabbed Greaseball's right arm, twisting it painfully backwards. Greaseball groaned through beard teeth as he felt his shoulder pop. 

Ultimately the pain of injury just kicked Greaseball's systems further into overdrive as he managed to overpower the younger engine, shoving him to the ground and kicking him into a corner. 

Strike refused to show weakness, laying emotionless and motionless as Greaseball pummeled him in his fallen state. Even when he was down he wouldn't give Greaseball the satisfaction of knowing he caused him pain. 

"You made your point, asshole! Now get off 'a him!" 

Strike looked up at the two figures dressed in shadow. Strike could just barely make out the "bloody" red facial markings on their noses and chins which matched Strike's own. 

Greaseball could take one SD45 colt, but two elder ones made him outmatched. 

Axle and Ruckus knelt down beside Strike, each taking one of his arms to help prop him up. 

"I'll get you for good next time, nipper! Maybe then you won't have your big brothers to come save your whimpering ass!" 

Greaseball gave one final snarl to the youngster before slinking off. 

"Whose whimpering?" Strike croaked out before spitting in the direction of the larger diesel. 

Axle took a rag to Strike's face, carefully cleaning off the oil and diesel mix dribbling from the younger engine's nose. Ruckus stood guard, watching Greaseball leave and make sure no one else from the UP gang were about to ambush. 

"Leave it to you, Strike, to square off with UP's largest engine", he said with a shake of the head. 

Strike was the baby of the gang being the youngest and smallest engine. He was old enough to be put to work as a freighter but he hadn't matured fully. Despite this he was a feisty little fella and tried very hard to prove himself to his big brother SD40s and fellow SD45 class engines. 

Greaseball was also one of the youngers of his gang but he was still by far the largest of all of them. He was a special experimental type engine, designed for Union Pacific to push the power limits of the next generation of diesel freighters. 

Strike wasn't the wisest when it came to picking fights, but he could not stand the experimental type diesel's cocky smirk. There was nothing he wanted more than to wipe it right off his face. 

Being an SP engine, Strike was raised to hate rival companies' diesel gangs. Strike did live through an attempt at merger with the Santa Fe but it fell through. Still, it meant SP and Santa Fe were on slightly better terms as they were gearing up to ally with each other. Besides, that hardly compared to the animosity between Southern Pacific and Union Pacufic gangs. Pretty much any time to rival gangs or diesels got into each other's vicinity a fight would break out. Today was no exception to that. 

Strike didn't know if his gang won or lost the fight, but either way didn't matter to him as now there was a more personal beef he wanted to settle. Strike's trophy became kicking that larger diesel down a notch. 

Axle never wanted to admit to himself that his adopted little brother was his replacement. He was credited with doing much of the little guy’s raising as no one else really wanted to deal with showing him the ropes. Axle tried to keep it a secret from anyone who wasn’t there to witness it, but he went through a near breakdown which was a catalyst to the birth of Strike and the other 45T-2s. 

It was the mid sixties where Axle was leading a freight line through the Sierra Nevadas.The train needed to get through a tunnel to cross the pass, Axle thought nothing of it. Trains go through tunnels all the time, natural part of being a locomotive, right? 

It was a long tunnel, much longer than what young Axle had anticipated. The tunnel was beginning to feel hot and claustrophobic. Axle broke into a sweat. Okay so he broke a sweat so what? He’s an SD45, the engine that can haul anything. He’s not just going to let some stuffy tunnel hinder him. 

He did his best to keep powering through the tunnel, as he huffed away and his cooling fans whirred and roared, reverbing through the old stone walls. He started to feel even hotter. His breathing became heavier as his body tried to dissipate the heat which was building up in his system. 

However, it wasn’t much longer before panting turned to wheezing. Axle was beginning to have a hard time breathing. He started to rapidly heat up, his body beginning to ache and strain. The tunnel was choking his cooling system. He needed to get out of that tunnel as soon as possible before he fried his engine. 

He made it to the end of the tunnel but collapsed on the other side. They had to stop railway traffic through the pass and get crews and repair trucks out to help him come down from overheating and make sure none of his parts were cooked. He needed a reliever to come take his place and a rescue to take him home to rest the remainder of the day. This event was going to be a nail in his coffin for sure. 

“Atta boy keep at it!” 

Mondo egged Strike on as he rapidly boxed the paddles on Ruckus’ hands. 

“Oh shit!” Ruckus squeaked out between laughs as Strike grinned and threw faster and faster combos which the older diesel was struggling to keep up with. 

“Having a hard time keeping up are we Ruckus?” Axle teased leaning on the wall of the roundhouse. 

“Little son of a bitch is fast!” 

“You the man, Strike! You the man! Fastest fists in the freight yard! That’s why they call you Strike ain’t it?” Mondo continued motivating Strike which made him fight even harder. 

“Don’t get sloppy now, gotta be smooth! Like a dance of death!” 

Axle’s stop watch sounded, “Alright bud, that’s time! We gotta get back to work but we can work on your fighting later this week”. 

Ruckus put down his paddles to toss Strike a bottle of water and ruffle his messy hair before leaving the roundhouse with the other two, “Rest up good kiddo! I wanna see those muscles even stronger next time!”

Strike flexed in front of the mirror, admiring the results of his post workout rush. 

_ I’ll be able to make all of those UP engines run away pissing themselves in no time! _ He thought smirking to himself as he slung a towel over his shoulders and took a big swig of water. 

Strike had barely slept the night previous. A work roster was put up every day, but today would tell who got to go on an especially heavy run through a long mountain pass. The run was tough but came with a hefty bonus for the engines running it. Strike had been lucky enough to be chosen for the run a handful of times, so he was hoping he'd be chosen this time around. 

Strike got up eagerly first thing in the morning, full of energy rather than his usual groggy self. He made his way to the central control building where a board with the day's roster posted was hung. 

Strike's excitement quickly melted into disappointment as he scanned the board, not only was he not on for the pass, he was instead put on for the small local routine jobs. 

Well, there went his plans for the extra pocket money that job would have given him…. What? Did they think he couldn’t handle it? 

Strike turned around kicking the dust as he rolled away angrily. This did not go unnoticed by his brothers. 

“Hey squirt, what’s gotten you in such a huff”, Mondo asked the younger.

“How many times do I have to tell you not to call me ‘squirt’?”, Strike snapped, “Dispatch has it in for me. Yet again I wasn’t chosen for the pass run. What gives?” 

Mondo put a brotherly hand on Strike’s shoulder padding, “It’s nothing personal bud. It’s just protocol. Dispatch isn’t allowed to put locomotives still in their testing years on runs with hazardous materials”. 

Strike was still ticked. He’d been allowed to do more than most testers. He was top of his class, he learned fast and was quite a bit bolder than other young engines. But, he supposed he understood more which calmed him down a bit. 

“Hey if it’s any consolation your work today is still important. It’s hard to get through special runs if we don’t have engines to pick up the slack on the routine runs after all.” 

_ So basically you get to piggyback off of my work and get a bonus for it and I don’t… _

He didn’t want to stay too mad around Mondo. It’s not like he had anything to do with the roster, he was just the lucky bastard who got the chance to get richer today, while Strike had to stay in his low pay “tester” status pulling grain, cement, or lumber. 

Strike had just finished his last run of the day, when he pulled back to the yard with the empty hoppers things were quiet. Eerily so, in fact. Not the usual hum of his brothers on the night shift getting stocked up. Just nothing. As he worked to settle the hoppers, he was approached by Ruckus coming at him in a hurry.

“Strike! There you are! Thank Starlight!” 

Strike was alarmed. He wasn’t used to seeing the usual cocky and somewhat vulgar, Ruckus, looking so helpless. His face was pale and covered in sweat. Strike felt a lingering humidity between them as Ruckus’ tense body embraced his. 

“Ruckus, what’s going on?” 

Ruckus' voice cracked, “There was an accident! Mesa pass! Their breaks failed! The grade was so steep, and the load was too heavy!” 

Strike’s engine ran cold, he remembered the work roster. Aster, Mondo, Crest, Valor, and Axle were powering that train. All of them some variation of SD40 or 45. All of them fellow members of Valiente’s gang. His brothers. 

Did he dare ask….

“What happened to them, Ruckus?” 

Strike’s fear escalated when Ruckus closed his eyes and dropped his face, one hand still lingering on Strike’s shoulder padding. A gesture which made Strike sick. He almost wanted to shove Ruckus’ hand right off. The last time someone put a brotherly hand on his shoulder was when….. Mondo……

“The speed, the turn, the drop, the accelerant freight… There were no survivors, not rolling stock, not crew…” 

Strike found himself praying that this was just one of Ruckus’ sick jokes gone way too far. Though Ruckus was never such a good actor. He seemed to be genuinely broken up in a way Strike had never seen before. I couldn’t be…..

It was.

It was true. They were gone. And Strike couldn’t shake the guilt of having the last time he saw any of them being when he was unfairly mad for them getting to make that run. 

The gang knelt somberly in the yard. All locomotives down on one knee. All silent save for the sound of their engines idling. The moment of silence lasted 3 minutes. 30 seconds for each locomotive, and an additional for the freight cars and crew that were killed. 

“Stand” Valiente said in a soft yet still assertive tone once their three minutes was up. 

The gang obeyed. 

“The loss of our brothers is no doubt devastating to us all. It’s devastating to all of SP. While I can’t and won’t force you all to let go of your grief, you must all remember we still have a job to do. Our bosses rely on us now more than ever. I’m sure you all already know about the company’s recent financial struggles. This accident made a bad problem worse. I hate to make this situation about finances, but depend on the company’s success for our own lives. Honor the memory of our brothers by fighting for your right to live, boys. Our merger with the Santa Fe fell through, so we don’t have that to fall back on anymore. We have each other and our own grit” 

Strike understood why, but it didn’t make him want to tear Valiente appart any less... They didn’t need another reminder on their own mortality and expendability after such an event as this. 

The racetrack was a rail built by both triumph and heartbreak. The sport of train racing came about through the instinct of natural competitiveness. Whenever two locomotives were placed adjacent to each other on the tracks their natural response was to see who was faster. Engines enjoyed showing off and their cars enjoyed the thrill of the chase. These early races simply came about through chance encounters. They were all fun and games to the engines, but could be dangerous, resulting in crashes and derailments on the mainlines.

Workers on the railroad enjoyed seeing their rolling stock strut their stuff in competition, so sanctioned races came about as a way for railroad companies to show off their proudest stock. 

Racing continued through many generations, and while remaining a show of the latest and greatest, also became a place of second chances for older stock to prove their capabilities in hopes that it would prolong their lives. While this provided a great opportunity, it also led to races becoming more hostile as engines fought desperately for their right to live. Cheating and foul play became more and more prevalent, and rules became more relaxed with favoritism playing a part in judging. 

The gang barely recognized their little brother, expecting to see the same scrawny whelp who left piggybacking two older 45s to the Utah line. Little did they realize that by the end of his two year job set, Strike was the lead engine. His youngster body had significantly filled out with muscle. A physique which rivaled that of even the gang's alpha, the reigning southwest champion. Valiente, naturally being the pack’s most athletic engine, was highly decorated with several world championship titles under his belt. 

Strike knew his long hauls over the mountains with massive freight loads had built his strength to its full potential. He was now back in the flats of the southern California coast, and he had a new target to overtake. 

“Man Strike, you got ripped!” a 40 named Hutch admired. 

Strike simply snorted confidently in response, walking passed as he strode right up to the gang’s alpha. 

The gang watched perplexed wondering what Strike was up to approaching his leader with such a challenging swagger. 

Valiente stared down the young locomotive with a confused smirk. The youngster showing no signs of backing off from his alpha’s gaze. The alpha gave him a warning growl through his engine. Strike still did not respond, facing off directly in front of his elder, not breaking eye contact. 

Finally Strike spoke up, “I have a point I need to prove, Valiente.” 

The alpha showed his teeth through his smirk, “Oh yeah? And what might that point be, kid?”

Strike’s eye narrowed, “That I can beat you in a race.”

The gang was taken aback. Surely this colt who had no racing experience didn’t just challenge the gang’s champion alpha male to a race. 

Valiente shook his head with a few scolding clicks of the tongue, “I hope you realize what challenging your alpha means, kid. If you lose, you’re banished from the gang. No one’s gonna protect you from the scrapper once you're out on your own. I don’t wanna race you Strike. I like ya, so does everyone here. But it’s ultimately your choice.” 

“I know. But if you think that’ll discourage me you’ve got another thing coming.” 

“Strike, don’t be so rash!” Bravo tried to intervene, but Valiente raised a hand to silence him and the locomotive slinked back. 

Valiente huffed a sigh

“You never were a smart one were ya, kid?” Valiente shoved his thumbs into his blinged out belt, shifting his weight on his legs casually. 

“Nope!” Strike said not missing a beat. 

“Okay, kid, I’ll play your little game. I’ll even let you choose the time and place”, Valiente said with a smug squint in his eyes. 

“Two weeks, Sierra Nevada line.” 

“You got it…”

Summer was in full swing, and all was quiet around the track. Strike and Valiente stood beside each other as frozen as statues as they gave the green mountain range before them a hard jungle cat gaze. Strike’s partner was Boomer, an SP box car, Valiente chose Peter, a cement hopper. 

“You two know the rules, first train to make it to the other side of the range will be the victor. If the challenger, Strike, loses, he is to be banished from the gang, as per the gang leader’s orders”, Bravo did his best to lay down the pre race speech without sounding disheartened by the consequences. He nodded to Crook who was holding a yellow oil rag to use as a makeshift start flag. 

“Engines you may begin acceleration to 25mph”. 

Crook raised the rag into the air. 

Both engines hummed loudly as they rapidly increased their rpms. 

They were allotted 30 seconds to get up to 25 but were not allowed to exceed until the duration finished. 

“10...9….8...7...6...5...4...3...2..1…..Trains gone!” 

Both engines began sprinting forward. Strike came up to speed rapidly, leaving Valiente behind. 

“Idiot boy..” the elder muttered to himself. 

Any experienced engine knows that trying to get up to race speed too fast can result in a slip. Slipping a wheel means the finish for a racer unfortunate enough to have one. 

Lucky for them neither Strike nor Boomer slipped a wheel, putting Strike ahead of Valiente for the first leg of the race. However once the first ascent came, Valiente caught up as Strike's initial sprint had started to tire him already. 

_ There's no way this whelp can win _ . 

Still Strike was nothing if not determined. Strike never let Valiente get ahead of him, only allowing the older engine to flank him as they continued through the valley passing. 

_ Sorry kid _ , Valiente thought,  _ your not going to have enough for the final sprint to the finish, your leaving the door wide open for me.  _

Valiente teased Strike by picking up pace, still Strike did not allow Valiente a pass. 

_ You gotta wisen up, kid _ , the elder thought. 

And it was, Strike was growing tired while Valiente still had vigor left, but Strike's bullheadedness still wouldn't give the lead to Valiente. 

As they came through the next pass, Strike started falling behind Valiente. 

_ So he's finally getting too tired.  _

Next came a long tunnel which got the trains through the next few summits. 

Valiente was no stranger to tunnels he had seen plenty on race courses, though they were never as long as this one. 

This particular tunnel was around a century old. It felt like diving into a mineshaft. Valiente didn't realize until he started through the tunnel, how much egging Strike on managed to heat his body up. He didn't feel that tired after all. 

Soon he started feeling his body struggle. The long dark tunnel feeling like a brick oven in the dead of summer. Valiente was starting to tire, and fast. 

Strike on the other hand was taking a break as he let Valiente grow tired on a stamina pace. Strike was not phased by the heat of the tunnel, his body built to dissipate heat low to the ground so tunnels like these wouldn't choke his cooling systems. Valiente on the other hand was designed to dissipate heat toward his upper body, where the heat would linger at the top of the tunnel and choke his cooling systems. This was only the first tunnel on route. 

The end was near and Strike and Valiente were both thoroughly exhausted. Strike wasn’t used to traveling so far at such speed, and Valiente’s cooling systems betrayed him through the tunnel passages. Valiente was not about to let Strike overtake him. 

He was the leader, he had to win to prove he deserved to be in his position. He couldn’t let himself be bested by a cocky youngster who’s never even raced. 

Unfortunately for Valiente the damage had been done. The high speed travel through the tunnels made him overheat, his engine laboring hard to keep going. 

While Strike was tired and losing his breath, the slight upper hand of staying at a stable temperature put him ahead of his alpha. 

It was over. Valiente lost. 

He couldn’t believe it. The gang was in silent shock. 

Valiente huffed heavily trying to dissipate heat. Hot exhaust rolled over his body, and the sunlight felt just torturous on his heated skin. 

Strike was no doubt tired, but he found the strength to move from bracing on his knees, catching his breath, to standing up confidently, his puffed out chest rising and falling with every cooling breath. 

Valiente shook his head. 

_ The Starlight saves fools….. _

Strike stood with his brothers watching the qualifier race for the North American championship. They were just beyond the final turn where the finish was in sight. They spotted a flash of red, yellow, and black as the three locomotives rounded the turn. It was Southern Pacific, Ferromex, and Union Pacific. Uno the Ferromex locomotive was behind. Valiente and Greaseball were very close. This final stretch would decide. 

Valiente’s engine hummed loudly as he made a hard sprint for the finish. Greaseball came up beside him giving him a hard elbowing to the gut, then face. 

Strike was enraged as he saw spit fly from Valiente’s mouth through his helmet with each hit. Valiente fought hard to stay on his feet but Greaseball got ahead, as well as Uno, leaving Valiente crossing the finish last. 

The SP gang was in shock. Valiente fell to his knees and removed his helmet.

He panted, his dark hair messy and caked with sweat. He knelt right next to the finish, staring unblinking at the horizon. 

The gang had no idea how to respond. Their fearless leader, the reigning champion, disgraced not once but twice. Once by a mere colt who had never raced a day in his life, then again in a qualifier race. They all just stared at him, waiting for him to do something. 

What seemed like centuries later, he finally turned his wide eyed gaze toward his gang on the sidelines. He stared at them, his expression of shock not changing. He slowly stood up, placed his helmet under his arm, covered his face with one hand, and stormed off without a word. 

No one had seen anything of Valiente for six months. They assumed he found himself at the scrapper by now. No one working in SP claimed to had seen him. Where he went after the loss was a complete mystery. 

The results and bad press of the race cost Southern Pacific a pretty penny in losses. Their racing team was not holding up in the circuit, and had few locomotives. 

The gang was frustrated, lost, confused, and many ended up directing their anger at Strike. 

"Well Strike, you wanna race so bad? Why don't you just clean up the mess you made? Huh? You wanna race kid? Then race! And win! Or don't bother waddling back here!"

Hutch intervened on Quazar's tirade "Cool it down man! We can't blame this on him!"

"Who else do we blame it on!" 

"Sure man. Blame everything on me because I won a race," Strike said bitterly, "Y'know what Quazar, I will. I'll race,I'll win, and I'll bring Southern Pacific back to its glory." 

Strike was quite matter of fact on the whole deal before he left to run the training track despite how late it was. 

For a while Strike did as he promised. Sure they where minor league races but they were still big wins. He became a highly esteemed racer. Hot Shot later came along and the two were a force to be reckoned with. Southern Pacific was able to stay afloat for several years, largely thanks to their efforts in positively representing their company's locomotive stock. 

That was until everything came crashing down. 

Union Pacific came in after the wreckage, gobbling up the scraps like a hoard of vultures after a massacre. They got everything they wanted. 

Greaseball got everything he wanted. 

What Greaseball  _ didn’t  _ want was to fight with his blast from the past right now. But he reflexively stood his ground and revved his engine in response to the other diesel’s aggressive reaction. 

Ashley and Buffy looked to Dinah, mouthing “breathe” reminding her to breathe, and analyze the situation in front of her. 

She did so, removing her death grip on the table. She stood up straight, placed her hands on her hips and looked sternly at her boyfriend. 

“Greaseball!” she said loudly with a warning in her voice. 

The UP diesel snapped out of his standoff, and looked over to Dinah. 

“Leave him! Go back inside! Now! And don’t come out until I say it’s okay!” 

Greaseball shot a gaze back at Strike. 

“Greaseball!” this time Dinah was very angry. 

Greaseball’s head shot up in surprise at his lover’s tone. He looked away from both Strike and Dinah, and rolled his way back into the cafe. 

That reaction surprised Strike enough to calm him down a bit. Since when does Greaseball listen to commands from anyone? Nevermind his girlfriend. Strike didn’t know Dinah well, but she was Greaseball’s coach for their race. The two of them must have had just met at the time of that racing season as he had not seen the dining car before then. Based on what he did see, Dinah seemed like the type to just let someone like Greaseball walk all over her. 

Greaseball promised he would be better. He promised Dinah, his team, his bosses, everyone. He’d done pretty well for himself up to now. He and Dinah got some helpful relationship advice and were getting along much better as a couple since then. He still couldn’t race because of the suspension but he ended up being allowed to train UP’s youngstock for racing. He never saw himself doing that before but he found that he actually really enjoyed the work. It pushed him to clean up his act too, since he had to set a good example for the kids. 

But here, he almost got himself in trouble again. If he got into a fight and his bosses caught wind he’d be in HUGE trouble. The whole situation with the championship gave a bad rap to UP and his bosses were not in the least pleased with him. He was lucky they let him get fixed up at all instead of just selling him for parts. 

Honestly that’s what he thought happened to the SP engine that he just faced off with. He was still flying the same SP colors as he was all those years ago, despite the fact that SP was no more. A few UP units wore modified SP colors to pay homage to the company, but Strike bore the same paint, and the same damage he bore on that fateful day. 

To Greaseball it was like seeing a ghost from long past. He told himself he forgot, that he moved on. It didn’t matter, he won the race. That year was the start of his streak as the Reigning Champion of the World. It’s not like it was his fault SP’s engines choked.

Still this phantom engine clearly had a grudge to hold. A phantom who had come to test the engine he’s become. 


	8. Dear Dinah

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING: This chapter has some potentially triggering content. Nothing explicit (rated T appropriate) but mild implications of sexual assault. If this may make you uncomfortable, feel free to skip this chapter. 
> 
> This chapter is Greaseball/Dinah centered. I myself have had some mixed feelings about the ship, but I did my best to write it in a reasonable and complex manner. Thoughts/Feedback/Critique for this chapter is welcome and appreciated. I'd been fighting some serious writer's block for this chapter as I was not sure right off the bat how to go about approaching it.
> 
> This is mainly a world building chapter, not integral to Strike's narrative. The events which pertain to Strike will later be narrated through his perspective.

Dinah couldn't shake the tingle in her belly. This was going to be her very first real race- that was if she could secure a partner. Sure, she had time before tomorrow night, but Dinah didn't want to wait until the last minute to try to find an engine to run with her. 

The night before a race was when engines and other rollingstock would gather at the race livery so they could spend the next day resting up before the race the following night. Races where most often run at night due to the decrease in railroad and road traffic. Once the stock looking to participate arrived at the race livery, they would gather at the nearest depot bar to mingle. 

Wise stock would stop at a few drinks and not allow themselves to get inebriated the night before a race. Even though it was a good 24 hours before race time, most wanted to avoid potentially getting injured or in trouble with their bosses or race officials. The celebration which took place after the race was a different story, but that wasn’t something Dinah was going to think about yet. She had more important matters. 

The pre-race mingling was probably her best bet for finding a partner. Rules of the race made the actual selection of a partner occur shortly before race time, but if you could secure one before the selection, it made the process much less stressful. 

Dinah found a seat alone at the bar, opting to order just an ice water with lemon. She’ll accept a drink if she gets lucky, she thought. 

“Well hello there Dollface,” Dinah perked up, it seemed a Burlington Northern engine sporting a green paint job had taken the bait. He ran a hand through his dark hair as he rolled in closer to her. 

“What’s a lady like you doin’ all alone in this joint?” he was a little more close than Dinah felt comfortable with. She could smell diesel exhaust mixed with booze on his breath, but this was her chance. 

“Oh, just lookin’ to meet some racers, mayhaps find someone to take me along tomorrow night”. Dinah looked to the side as she spoke, trying to move her body away from the engine’s closeness. 

“Well what a coincidence, I happen to be in need of a coach to race with. We should pair up, I think.” the engine put a hand on her face and pushed her chin up in a manner Dinah found rather uncomfortable. 

“Uh, don’t waste any time do ya?” Dinah was done trying to hide her discomfort. A closeness she supposed she could take, but now he was touching her without permission, and pretty roughly too. 

Dinah tried halfheartedly to pull away, so not to do so in a way that was too harsh, but the engine just tightened his grip on her face, causing Dinah to let out a stifled yelp. 

"Tryna leave so soon? What for?" 

Dinah couldn't find the words to respond. 

"Your gonna be such a pretty little package on the track tomorrow. Whaddya say we do a little practicing tonight." 

By the way he raised an eyebrow when saying 'practicing' gave Dinah the impression that he was looking for a different kind of romp than one around the racetrack. 

"I don't think… I really should…" Dinah stammered trying to avert her gaze from the engine. 

"Oh a little shy are we? Don't worry princess I'll help you outta your shell". 

"No, no I don't-" 

"Did you just say no to me?" The engine's gaze hardened as he tightened his grip again.

Dinah tried this time with all her strength to pull away, but the engine's used his other hand to grab her arm. 

"I'll have you know sweetheart. I always get what I want." 

Some other rolling stock seemed to take notice at Dinah trying to get away from the BN engine, though none seemed to muster up the courage to try to break it up. 

Tears pricked the side of Dinah's eyes as she fruitlessly tried to escape the engine's grip. 

Her eyes squeezed shut causing fresh hot tears to roll down her cheeks. 

_ Someone please help me…. _

"Hey bub!" 

Dinah opened her eyes. Had her prayer been answered? 

"Hey mind your own business-!" 

The green engine froze when he turned his gaze to see a massive black and yellow clad rig. He looked fairly young, but he was huge. No adult engine would want to have that staring down at them in such a manner. 

"I'd think someone with your kind of experience would know how to treat a coach!" the large engine snarled, "now you better let her go before I smash you into next week!" 

The BN engine shook off his expression of shock, putting a brave front back on. 

"Who gave you the right to boss me around rookie?" 

"I don't think I need to earn the right to protect a coach from a creeper like you. Now let go of the carriage." 

The young engine got right into the other's face, grabbing him by the collar. 

The elder but smaller engine obeyed, and the larger slammed him back against the bar earning a crack from the BN's body and a grunt of pain. 

Dinah jumped assuming the large rig had just broken the other's spine. 

The larger followed up with a punch across the other's face, causing oil to leak from his lips and nose. 

The message became clear to the BN. He was clearly injured. Not badly enough to not be able to slink away but he may have to sit out the race this time. 

The large rig turned his attention to the still trembling dining car. 

“You okay, girlie?” 

“Mhm...:” Dinah had a noticeable tremble in her voice. 

The large rig gently held out a hand to the frightened coach, “It’s alright now. I can escort you to your housing if you want.” 

“Okay”, Dinah’s hand met the large rig’s. 

“Just tell me the way and I’ll make sure you get there safe.” The diesel gently closed his fingers around her small hand. 

The engine didn’t want to leave the poor little lady alone so shaken up so he tried to engage her in some casual chit chat. 

“Here to race I assume?”

“Mhm” 

“You done much racing? I haven’t seen you around, but I’m also pretty new to the circuit.”

“No, this is my first time…”

“Oh I see,..... What a to be introduced to your first race….” the diesel muttered to himself. 

The two made it to Dinah’s shed stall. The diesel wanted to have one more small conversation before bidding the carriage goodnight and getting to rest for the next day.

“You feel okay to race?”

“I- I think so”

“It’s okay if you aren’t I mean….” 

“I’ll see how I feel tomorrow I guess”

“Yeah… well if you decide to and you need a partner I could…”

“Oh thank you, that’d real sweet of you Mister…” 

“Greaseball.” 

“I’m Dinah”

“Dinah…” Greaseball liked the way that name sounded.

“Well Dinah, take care a yourself, good night.”

“Good night…. Thank you Greaseball” 

It was that night that made the rest history for Dinah. She raced with Greaseball and they saw many victories together. Greaseball would not race with any other coach but his Dinah. Just to rookies showing the world what they were made of. The two spend much time together, practicing and traveling to races. It was only natural that they fell for each other. They were young and in love and the world was going to watch them. 

This was it, Greaseball’s first world championship, and in his first year of racing no less. His bosses at Union Pacific could not have been happier with their experimental type engine showing what brilliance the minds of their company engineers and designers came up with. The massive, muscular engine was a sight to behold. His petite carriage was a talented partner herself. Sure she was lightweight and easy for the large diesel freighter to haul, but she was a natural when it came to feeling out the tracks and knowing when to apply her brakes. 

Greaseball always kept his hair slicked back in a pompadour, but today it almost seemed especially well groomed. He held himself confidently, not showing any sign of nerves or hesitation. This helped put Dinah at ease, but she was still no doubt nervous. 

The trans America final was always hosted by Union Pacific whether they had a dog in the fight or not. Amtrak took a co-hosting position to offer longer trackage and extend electric lines and “third rails” over the transcontinental racetrack for any electric competitors as most internationals were EMUs. 

Dinah felt a fluttering in her chest. Sure she’d been racing, but she was hardly as experienced the other rollingstock they were facing. 

_ Was Greaseball nervous? _ she wondered. He didn’t look nervous, but maybe he was good at hiding it. He kept an eager tug on the coupler slack between them, like a horse pulling on the bit. Maybe he was masking anxiety with an eagerness to run. The gate was rotated around a rotary circle, giving the engines a chance to get themselves moving before they were released for the race. This helped prevent wheel slippage and derailments out of the start. 

Greaseball’s duel engine system hummed to a start as he put himself on the first notch of his throttle as they began a slow acceleration through the start rotation. 

_ 10...9...8...7..6...5...4...3...2...1….TRAINS GONE. _

And like that, the engines rapidly came up to speed and launched themselves out of the gate as the marshal waved the start flag. 

Greaseball launched forward setting the pace in a hustled sprint before settling into his endurance pace. The shinkansen attempted to pass, giving a swift swipe at the diesel’s upper body. Greaseball and Dinah ducked to dodge before Greaseball swung around to nail him with a hard jab, setting the bullet behind the rest of the pack trying to find his footing. 

Greaseball wasn’t able to hold on to the lead the whole way. It was only natural after all. Races tended to consist of several position shifts over the course to to track changes and fights. Regardless, he kept pace with the rest of the field, not allowing himself to be blocked off from a sprint. 

Greaseball spent most of the transcontinental trek toward Los Angeles toward the middle of the pack. With only about 30 miles to go he seemed in a good spot. At least that was until he was suddenly knocked off his main track by the French engine, throwing him off into a siding that nearly cost him his balance. Dinah, however, was quick on the breaks allowing them to avoid a crash. 

Greaseball thanked the stars that Dinah was able to act quickly, but cursed himself for letting that pampered croissant take him by surprise like that. He was still on the siding track, which was going to put him on a longer route to Los Angeles. This may just cost him the race.

No. He wasn’t going to accept defeat just yet. The final tussle before the finish was always the roghest. With some luck those other buffoons from overseas will just slow eachother down. If he powered on, no holds barred now, he had a chance. It was a small one, but it was still there. 

“C’mon Dinah!” Greaseball nodded back to his lover before bringing his throttle up all the way putting him in a full sprint. 

The track was a bit of uncharted territory, but Dinah was clearly on her toes today. 

This was probably the fastest pace Dinah had ever ridden. She had no idea a heavy diesel freighter could move the way Greaseball was now. She was used to seeing his type loping around at a modest pace while hauling heavy loads, akin to a plow horse. Naturally by speed alone, the powerful diesel freighters of North America where mere bumbling clydesdales among the sleek thoroughbreds of the international passenger engines. But the powerful diesels could take and deliver hits better than any other. Unfortunately for Greaseball, that advantage was not available right now. 

Dinah could feel Greaseball’s body trembling as he sounded a shrill whir through the strain on his engine. An engine pushing himself this hard could be dangerous. Dinah could already feel an intense heat radiating off of Greaseball’s body. It was night, but still quite warm in the southern half of California. But even that humidity seemed cold in comparison to Greaseball’s heat. He panted hard with each stroke, droplets of sweat hitting Dinah’s face and arms as they continued to speed along. 

Dinah was beginning to grow worried. What if he experienced some kind of failure? What if he overheated or cooked a belt?. Regardless, Greaseball continued to fight through bared teeth. 

Here it was, the final ten mile stretch. By now Greaseball had rejoined the track. He feared a moment as he couldn’t see the other racers anywhere. Not in front nor behind him. Regardless he kept his pace. He wasn’t going down without a fight. 

As he sprinted on at over a hundred mile per hour, using any downhill slopes he could find as a leg up, he finally saw his targets. Two racers tried tussling each other right off the tracks. Clearly the other had been knocked out of the rankings already. If he kept the pace, he might just catch up while those two are busy tangoing with each other. 

Greaseball huffed heavily as hot, thick exhaust poured out of his helmet. Dinah had to adjust her position so not to be blinded by it, though even worse would be causing drag that would slow Greaseball down. He was working himself so hard the the last thing she wanted to do was cost him the race by mere seconds. 

Greaseball was nose to nose with the two internationals duking it out, but that was the last thing he remembered. 

When Greaseball woke up he was lying on the berth in his shed. To figures looking over him. The first he noticed was Dinah, with a look of concern holding, a cold cloth to his forehead. The other figure he registered was a UP repair truck. 

"What happened?" He managed to croak out to the two of them. 

"You overheated, honey. You damn near broke down", Dinah said trying to hide any urgency in her voice. 

Greaseball sighed, "..... I lost the race…" 

Dinah's look of concern grew into a smile as she let out a soft chuckle

"No silly! You won!" 

"I-I did?- No", Greaseball looked into Dinah's eyes, " _ we _ did." 

Maybe Greaseball's condition prevented him from taking his honorary victory lap, but kissing his beloved, Dinah and holding her close was even better. 

Things were changing around the yard for Greaseball. Even though Dinah wasn't there all the time, she could tell. His mannerisms became quite a bit more cocky. 

Greaseball's courageous victory in the World Championship got him high praise from his bosses and peers. He was promoted to the yard's leader. There was not a rolling stock in UP, even the nation who didn't know who Greaseball was.

However, Dinah herself became pretty popular. So much so that other engines would try to solicit her to be their coach in races. Dinah couldn't possibly just ditch Greaseball like that. Not only were they a team, they were a couple. They had to stick together. 

This attention did not go unnoticed by Greaseball either. Greaseball became heavily protective of Dinah, feeling the need to throw his weight around to make sure no one would mess with her or himself. 

Dinah wished Greaseball didn't take such measures. It just seemed a bit too brutal, but at the same time there was a bit of sweetness to it. He was doing that for her after all. 

Another world champion season was underway and Greaseball was eager to qualify to protect that title he worked so hard for last year. This time it was UP vs SP.

The year was 1994, and SP was experiencing financial difficulties and fighting to keep their race team alive. One this was for sure, their two engines were ready to fight tooth and nail to win the race tonight.

Both were rookies as Greaseball was last year, but he'd be damned if he was going to go easy on them. Not only did he have his status to uphold, but Southern Pacific was one of UP's most bitter rivals. He'd beat up their diesel stock in plenty of gang fights in the past. They had nothing even close to Greaseball's power type. 

The "bloody nosed" one seemed to have a special kind of hatred in his eyes, and that only pissed Greaseball off further. 

The race began with the two SP engine’s humming away on either side of Greaseball. Like a pair of mosquitos, Greaseball kept swatting at them, but they kept coming back for more. They were such a thorn in his side. The three exchanged blows, but none of them hit. It’s like they were just doing it to tease him. By the second half of the race, Greaseball managed to land a hot on the daylight diesel causing him to fall back in a flash of red and orange. The bloody nosed little brat was still on his tail. Rage in his eyes. He was getting ready to make a hard move on Greaseball any second. 

He managed to do a fakeout grab and hit on Greaseball, again never actually delivering the blow. The little shit was toying with him! Trying to get him worked up. He started sheepdogging on Greaseball, causing friction on his outside wheels as sparks were drawn. He’d better hope Greaseball didn’t derail or he’d be disqualified automatically. 

Fortunately for him Greaseball was much larger and wasn’t going to cost himself a race. The red and orange daylight was still behind them somewhere so he wouldn’t even be able to win by default. 

The kid was just trying to break his focus hoping he could get a break and take him over. Greaseball wasn’t letting on, though. As ticked off as he was by the little crap he would be damned if he allowed him to overtake him by letting his rage bring his guard down. He focused himself and redirected his frustration into running harder. Only about a mile ahead was an approaching narrow. They both knew it.

The younger engine knew he had to act fast if he was to get the upper hand. If he was set behind, he would have a damn time trying to pass Greaseball in the half mile before the finish. 

_ So he’s gonna try to play chicken with me to get past huh? Dumb kid…. _

It was an ambitious move but the course designer to allow a narrowing so late in the race, but they probably figured only older and wiser engines would have made it to the final round of the tournament, not a naive youngster like the two SP engines. 

The younger engine hummed loudly as he pushed his 20 cylinders as hard as he could go. He was neck in neck with Greaseball, just about to pull ahead when suddenly, Greaseball heard a snap, followed by grinding noise as the youngster’s engine sputtered to a stop. 

Dinah looked back. There was a look of shock on the faces of both the rival engine, and the coach. But the young engine’s face was very distinct. She could see it through his helmet, even if only for a millisecond. The look haunted her, it was nothing she’d ever seen before. The engine had a deathgrip on his chest. His face pale as exhaust stopped flowing altogether. His eyes wide, yet lifeless. His body began to go limp as he slowed onto the narrowing, behind them. 

Dinah held her breath upon realizing that there was an approaching cloud of exhaust coming straight for the narrowing. 

_ The other one! Oh! Oh no! _

Dinah closed her eyes tight, burying her face into Greaseball’s back when she heard it. 

A crash followed by the mangling of metal, and shattering of glass and wood, followed by a series of loud booms which put a heat on her back. She sped off behind Greaseball listening to the screams and cries for help on onlookers on a nearby overhang. 

This was in no way a run of the mill accident seen on the race course. She wished there was something she could do to help, but Greaseball kept on toward the finish. Not even seeming to flinch at the sound of violent wreckage behind him. 

“I don’t want to do this anymore!” Dinah sobbed. 

“Oh you sure as hell will! We have plenty more racing to do before the championship! If you want us to stay together, you’ll race with me!” Greaseball yelled back at her. 

“How can you be so heartless about this whole thing? That could have just as easily been us last year!” 

“Well it wasn’t! I could hold my own! He was weak, he got what he deserved, it’s survival of the fittest on the track, Dinah. They’re both as good as scrap now, as they should be.” 

Dinah was shocked. What happened to the Greaseball she knew before? Sure he was competitive, but this was just mean. 

“How dare you!”

“Hey! This is what racing is for! To weed out the weak! If you can’t handle it stay off the racetrack and forget about talking to me ever again!” 

After that day neither of them ever talked about it ever again. Deep down, Greaseball knew Dinah was right, that almost was him at the last year’s world championship. But he was going to make damn sure that never happened…...

  
  
  
  
  


Even if he had to cheat to do so…..

Three more championships fell under Greaseball’s belt. A World Triple Crown and then some. He became regarded as the “Greatest Diesel Locomotive in History”. As UP ran the World Championship, they saw to it that the marshals went easy on him when the rules were “stretched”. He was their poster boy after all. UP got a large spike in clientele thanks to their representation by Greaseball. Dinah continued racing with him and they stayed together, though something about them was a bit more distant. Sure at a glance they seemed like a perfect star couple. While Dinah didn’t like Greaseball’s taking to mistreating other stock, and flirting with other coaches, she was more afraid of losing him. Greaseball knew this, and seemed to become more and more comfortable over the years of taking advantage of this. 

It wasn’t until Greaseball’s attempt at a double triple crown came crashing down that everything had to be torn down and rebuilt. 

His dirty play finally came back to bite him. Despite all he’d done wrong to her, Dinah was by his side once more nursing him back to health, Just like that day six years ago. Except now he really was a loser. He lost his gang, he was in massive trouble with his bosses. While they let the more minor cheating slide, they were not too pleased to find out he hired CB the red caboose to cause wrecks for other racers. He was a mess physically, and UP was in no rush to fix him up due to all the bad press he caused them. The only one who stayed by his side was Dinah to help kiss the pain away. 

_ Dear, sweet Dinah. What on earth did I do to deserve you? All I seemed to do was prove that I didn’t…. _

Everyone told her to just dump him, he was a loser before and he is a loser now. Even Greaseball himself tried to say that it was better that they split. Dinah would hear nothing of it. It made Greaseball concerned really. 

The least he could do was try to fix this whole big mess that he made. 

If you asked him months ago if he’d spend time listening to old Poppa McCoy rambling about, he would have laughed in your face, but now what did he have to lose? 

It took some coaxing to reach Dinah, but the coaches and Belle worked long and hard to help Dinah get herself a backbone in her relationship with Greaseball. 

If this was going to work in a way that would be healthy for Dinah, she needed to be able to stand her ground, and Greaseball needed to learn to listen. 

Greaseball wasn’t smart, but he was stubborn. If Dinah was all he had now, then he would be damned if he allowed himself to hurt her again. 

Things weren’t perfect, but they were a lot more like they started out. Naturally there would be a slipup - Greaseball doing something or Dinah not speaking her mind when she should, but progress was clear. They both seemed to want to make things work and talk their feelings out more. They didn't fight much, and this time it wasn’t because Dinah was too afraid to argue. 

However, there was still one can of worms that neither of them wanted to open, but here it was staring them in the face with an even deeper hatred than that seen eight years ago. 


	9. Memories Come Crashing Down

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies that this took so long. After partaking in StEx appreciation month I had a bit of a burnout, but I have the new chapter now!

It was the hottest week thus far this year. Naturally the white noise of choice going 24/7 was the whirring of fans and the roar of air conditioning units propped up in the office windows of the railroad staff. Around the yard, the working stock only had the luxury of getting fans on them when they were off work. As a result, panting, sweating, straining of cooling fans was liberal in the poor saps who were working, or in tie-down waiting for their next job. Fortunately for "unhealthy" engines like Strike and Rusty, this meant fewer hours. They where still hot even when not at work but they wouldn't dare complain knowing how tough the others had it

Strike redirected his fan to the right side of his face, trying to spare his injured eye of any unnecessary irritation. 

"Not very like you to make a house call, doc." 

"Well, your bosses couldn't have you straining yourself in the heat" 

Wrench stated in her usual metallic and somewhat bitter tone

Strike scoffed,"I'm a tunnel motor diesel, we're made for the heat". 

"The heat of a tunnel", Wrench corrected. 

"Still, nothing I can't handle." 

Wrench sighed, "They just didn't want to take any risks, plus this was the only time they could get our reference to come out"

"Who is this 'reference', what exactly are they here for."

"I asked for him to come and provide some more background info on you since the records I got from the museum were incomplete."

"The hell do you mean they were incomplete", Strike said furrowing his brow, "they had my entire starlight-damn life story posted next to me while I was  _ napping  _ in that hell hole". 

"Some newspaper clippings don't give me the information I need to properly care for you". 

Strike huffed in response, "Where is this 'reference' anyways?" 

"Just running late, I'm sure he'll be here soon, he came a long way from California to get out here." 

As if right on cue, an especially disheveled looking young man burst through the door to Strike's shed. 

"Didn’t even knock first? How rude. For all you know Doc Wrench and I could've been having some fun in here while we were waiting for you." 

Wrench shot Strike the meanest death glare she's given him thus far (and she's given him quite a few) 

Strike grinned back with a look of ‘jokes on you I don’t fear death’ 

She mouthed “Behave!” to him as a last warning before turning her attention toward the young human. 

“Anyways, Strike, I trust you remember Mr. Quincy? He was one of your caretakers at the museum back in California”. 

Strike got the chance to take a proper look at the guy. Sure enough it was the same young engineer who woke him up from his  _ little  _ nap and got him put back into service. Same glasses, same disheveled brunette hair and same faded freckles lining his face and neck. Kind of a geeky looking fellow. The only difference was that he was wearing a dress shirt and pants, Strike had previously seen him in the more casual wear of jeans and a tee shirt, or button up most engineers working with diesels would wear (the overalls and caps tend to be reserved for steamer operations). 

“How you been fella? You look a little you’ve perked up quite a bit since I last saw you.” 

“I suppose it’s been nice getting back to work” Strike said. 

“I’ll bet, work is the lifeblood of rolling stock after all. Everyone likes a break every so often, but you guys get a bit stir crazy, and your health declines when you don’t have a job.” 

“Correct”, stated Wrench, as if implying that he was just preaching to the choir at this point in discussing rolling stock husbandry to a repair truck. 

Quincy cleared his throat,”Um right, I brought all the documents on Strike I could find in the museum's archives. I also got in touch with some historical societies known for collecting Southern Pacific documents, and checked with Union Pacific since many of SP’s engines were transferred to them. Thought some of his docs might have gotten mixed up during the transfer of ownership”.

Strike felt hollow listening to that last part. Figures those jerks would snatch up his paperwork while they greedily claimed his brothers. 

Quincy opened his organizer and pulled out a stuffed folder, closed with a single straining elastic, trying to keep the clusterfuck of papers of all shapes and sizes in one piece. 

Strike was somewhat surprised on how much of that crap was relevant to him. 

“It looks like a lot I know, but I collected literally everything I could find. This includes registry papers, bills of sale, maintenance orders, job orders, news articles, race results, training records, maintenance checks, and incident reports. 

“Well, thanks for the effort Mr. Quincy. Hopefully I’ll be able to find what I actually need in this massive pile”. 

Quincy scratched the back of his neck, “Yeah sorry, got a bit carried away”. 

The three began sorting through the various documents. Naturally the photographs are what caught Strike’s eye the most. 

First photo he saw was one that Wrench grabbed. It was a few conformation shots on a transfer form from EMD. He looked so young. The shots must have been taken just before he was transferred for testing with SP, quite a while before his racing days.    
Seemed so long ago, but how could he forget those old days with the other SP commissioned colts in the training yard. Strike was the first young engine in his build year to learn to skate. He was always quite bold and competitive. His human masters always said he’d make a great racer. In hindsight, those handlers at his birth yard had no fear having to care for a horde of young, but still very large and quickly growing diesel engines who lacked coordination and didn’t always realize how much power they threw around. Naturally there were other rolling stock like maintenance cranes and elder engines who could step in if things got out of hand, but the danger was still very much there. If there’s anything young diesels love to do, it’s push their weight around, picking play fights with each other. Strike got into some trouble on more than one occasion for roughhousing too much with the other. He loved pushing buttons and picking fights with whoever he could. 

Once they were mature and experienced on their wheels enough, they would be transferred to their company to begin work training. Freighters like Strike would start they’re working days on a multi headed train with several older locomotives. That’s how he became integrated into his gang. 

The next photograph Strike picked out from the pile was a photograph taken by one of the yard workers of him with Ruckus, Axle, Samson, and Sierra preparing to transport a large coal train. Strike was still in training at this time, and the other engines were his elders who were showing him the ropes. He took the helper position directly behind Ruckus who was the lead unit, likely since that was the easiest spot for them all to keep an eye on him with Sierra behind him, Axle farther down, and Samson taking up the rear to assist with breaking and upward grade. He could tell he was new on the job since he was noticeably smaller and less muscular than the others. He almost smiled to himself remembering what it was like to be so young. Young colts new to the job would be full of piss and vinegar until you actually got them pulling. Then, they would tire out in minutes and spend the rest of the day sleeping. They simply hadn’t yet developed the muscle or stamina for the work. Fortunately that made them easier to handle for the crew and other rolling stock, unlike in the training yard where they didn’t have as much of an outlet. His humor didn’t last long as his attention drew more to the other, elder engines. Axle perished in the Mesa Pass wreck, that’s were Strike’s relationship with loss started. He had no idea were Ruckus, Samson, and Sierra ended up since the day SP shut down. He was sure some of his brothers were transferred to UP and still working for them, but he also feared many of them were not needed and either scrapped or abandoned. It was a chilling thought. 

Strike shoved the picture away trying to shun those thoughts with it. Looking away he noticed another image with a beautiful scenery. Strike was the leading unit on a mixed freight train traveling through the Sierra Nevadas. Strike pulled proudly, and unwavering. He was now a fully matured engine, in his prime for sure. The strength in his physique and body language was complemented nicely by the snow capped mountains soaring high above the train. It honestly made him feel a bit homesick. He was born in Nevada, and spent much of his maturing in Nevada. He was a pretty long way away from there now. Those were some of his happiest years. The only time he felt happier was when he started his racing career. Though knowing he lost that for good made any joy those memories brought fade. 

On the table there was a white envelope that looked to be full of more pictures. He reached for it. 

“Strike! Wait! Those-”

Quincy spoke up meekly but Strike seemed to not notice. The envelope was unsealed, so it only took him seconds to flip it open and see the contents. 

Race photos. 

Wrench couldn’t help but feel a pang of sympathy when Strike looked at the contents and sighed sadly. 

He threw them down on the table watching them all spread out in a messed heap. His eyes growing foggy as they scanned the clusterfuck of happy memories shattered by one unfortunate event.

Some were just images of him racing, others were photo finishes, and some were images of him in the winner’s circle with Hot Shot and their teacher, Mercury. These pictures were his happiest moments, and that’s what made them so hard to look at. All three of them smiled, genuine smiles. They weren’t posing for a photo, they were candidly celebrating his victory. In some Mercury held him tightly in a hug, in others he was embracing and kissing Hot Shot. 

_ It’s all your fault! They would still be here if you weren’t so stupid! _

The final image that caught his eye was one that he never knew was taken, and one he wished had not. 

Strike laid unconscious and battered on the ground, his demolished racing helmet cast off to the side. His body was covered in a tarp like a blanket. Worst of all was Mercury. She was kneeling beside him, cradling his battered head, weeping. Weeping like she was grieving a lost child. 

This broke Strike. He had never before seen Mercury cry. The silver SP caboose with that signature long silver hair which she always kept in a braid was his and Hot Shot’s rock. She was tough, but loved the two boys she cared for very much. He and Hot Shot were “Merc’s boys” as all the veterans on the racing circuit would call them. Mercury had herself done a lot of racing, going as far back as the days of steam when she raced with Arcturus. She had many partners over the years, but none meant as much to her as Arcturus. The daylight engine was her closest companion for many years and they saw many victories including a world championship. He meant so much to her that she wanted her last race to honor him. 

That’s why she raced with Hot Shot for his Regional Championship qualifier race. 

How Strike missed waking up every morning to that bubbly freckle faced GP engine with the fiery daylight paint. There was a saying that SP’s daylight engines were the most beautiful engines in the world. With that sentiment, Strike had to agree. He was enamored with Hot Shot from the moment the two of them met. He was more stunning than any other engine, heck, any other rolling stock he’d ever come across. Hot Shot’s personality was as bright as the sun on the California coast he called home. The two of them were like night and day, but that made them work together so well. Hot Shot had a way of breaking Strike out of his shell and getting the heavily work oriented freighter to stop and appreciate the little things in life. 

Hot Shot was so smart, maybe a bit naive, but he knew so many things thanks to his passenger line upbringing. Strike was always afraid Hot Shot was too smart for him, that he would never humor a dumb brute like him. This was not the case though. Hot Shot ignited a curiosity in Strike, he taught Strike so much in their time together. He never talked down to Strike for not knowing something. Strike wanted to learn, and he was happy to teach him. 

When it came to racing, they were playfully competitive, doing their best to impress the other. They would tease and taunt each other during practices, but when it came to downtime, they would cherish any time alone they could get. 

With their schedules this would be difficult at times, but it made their time together that much more valuable. When the night was clear, they would lay out and look at the stars, if it was stormy, they would hold each other close in one of their sheds and listen to the symphony of rain, wind, thunder, and the little relaxed rumbles and sighs the other would make. Some nights, when things were quiet and still, Strike would take out his ukelele and sing to Hot Shot, while he dozed off against him. 

Noticing next the billows of smoke in the picture’s background brought Strike back to reality. No doubt those were coming from his fallen partner. 

_ You caused this! You almost killed him! He’s better off without you! He forgot you, you deserve to be forgotten! _

Strike began to feel sick, his breathing sped up and he had to fight to keep himself from throwing up. 

Wrench wasn’t sure what to do. She was a medic, not a phyciatrist, but she knew touching him could make things worse. 

“Strike! Are you okay?” 

Strike staggered backward clutching at his chest, looking quite surprised when his back hit the wall. Wide eyed, huffing out copious amounts of exhaust, he looked like a wild animal that had just been backed into a corner by some unseen threat. 

“Hey there, easy fella” Quincy tried to approach him but was directed away by Wrench. 

“I don’t know how he’s going to react, he’s a big engine, I don’t want you getting hurt.” Wrench said to him in a hushed but firm tone. 

Strike’s gaze was glossed over. His pupils directed blindly into a nonexistent wasteland. 

He spoke up in a haunting tone, “Tell me….. Where’s Mercury?” 

Quincy didn’t know how to answer. 

“I need her…” he said in a weeping tone, “ _ Where is she?! _ ”

He went from sounding like a scared child to a loud gruff shout that would have rivaled the volume of his own horn. 

Wrench and Quincy were lost on how to react. 

“ _ Tell me! Damn it! Tell me! _ ” 

Quincy wanted to say nothing but the longer he stayed quiet the more threatening the diesel became. 

Wrench stood between Strike and Quincy as the engine’s body language became more and more aggressive. He didn’t know what was the safer option; continuing to say nothing or telling Strike the ultimate fate of the caboose. 

“ _ Where? Where’s Mercury? Look me in the eyes and tell me where she is? _ ” His eyes were still glossed over but his gaze was now directed down at the young engineer.

Quincy saw his eyes, but couldn’t lock a gaze with him for long. He looked down at the ground as his head followed. 

That told Strike what he needed to know…

“ _ She’s gone isn’t she? Is that it? _ ” 

Quincy looked back up, nodding slowly. 

“ _ DAMN IT! _ ” Strike rammed himself into the shed wall, pounding it repeatedly with his fist, making the whole structure shake. 

“Quincy get out of here!” Wrench directed knowing an engine like Strike could cause the whole thing to collapse with enough force. 

The engineer sprinted out. 

Wrench did her best to act quickly. 

“Strike, it’s alright. Calm down,” she did her best to talk to him calmly and slowly. She knew he had to be grounded somehow. 

“Strike look at me” she didn’t want to get to close, but she put a bit more of a commanding tone in her voice, trying not to go overboard making him feel threatened. 

It seemed to work as Strike’s eyes opened and rolled over toward her. 

“You’re safe here, it’s just me. Just breath, you’re okay.” 

As tension was gradually lost, his body began to tremble. 

His legs went weak until they gave out under him. He was on his knees and began to weep. 

“I’m sorry…. I’m sorry,” he sobbed. His eyes burned as hot tears streamed down his face. 

_ I’m sorry Wrench. I’m sorry Edmund. I’m sorry Mercury….. _


	10. Holding On

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey all! Thanks for your patience, this will be a shorter chapter but since I got the juices flowing again, I think I should be able to get rolling on the next few chapters real soon!

Strike always dreaded hearing his alarm in the morning, especially when it was still dark out. Even if the morning wasn’t that cold, a cold start was an agonizing process. The steamers didn’t know how lucky they were; just being able to spark their fireboxes and get rolling first thing in the morning without having all of their internal mechanics seized up overnight. Strike supposed with increased power and efficiency would come some drawbacks, naturally.   
Not only did Strike’s body need to warm up so the diesel in his system would work out of it’s gelled state, but Strike’s body was unique in that he was one of the only diesel electric locomotives with 20 cylinders as opposed to the usual 16. This gave him more power, but also made it take longer for him to get him going in the morning.   
Strike eyed the energy drinks he kept stored in the fridge of his shed, pondering whether he should take one to help speed up his jumpstart. They made him feel more efficient, sure, but they had a way of messing with his head too.   
Since his last meeting with Wrench, he’d been in rough shape mentally. To say it didn’t do much for his sense of self worth was an understatement. Most nights he would stay awake, sitting up, letting his mind fog over with the thought that he’d be more useful as a pile of scrap metal than as a running locomotive. Some days it just hurt to be alive, he couldn’t always explain it.   
He was constantly tempted to come up with an excuse that he wasn’t feeling well, but that would of course mean that the mechanics would be all over him trying to find an issue that wasn’t even mechanical. 

Strike’s change in mood didn’t get past Rusty. He noticed the diesel looked more worn out, and didn’t talk much. He never really did to begin with other than the occasional snide comment, but now he was lucky to get more than a grunt in response to any questions he asked.   
Today was no different. Strike went through his chores alongside the small steam switcher. He carried a tired glaze in his eye. He worked slowly, like he was running on little fuel, though they both knew that wasn’t the case since his tank was just topped off that morning.   
Rusty was worried about him, but was afraid to ask. He didn’t want to upset him, but he hoped he would come forward and trust him enough to talk if he needed to. Though Rusty didn’t fully know how much Strike trusted anybody.   
As much as Rusty hated to admit it, he also hesitated around him. Not only was his history with diesels not the best, but he knew Strike’s behavior could take some unpredictable turns. Rusty knew Strike would never hurt anyone on purpose, but sometimes his sickness would take over.   
As much as Rusty wanted him and Strike to be friends, he couldn’t help but feel there was still a barrier between the two of them. Like they were trying to protect themselves from each other. 

The freight passed to move out of the yard for transport. Both locomotives were surprised to see CB at the back with minimal supervision. The higher ups must have allowed him a bit more room due to good behavior. Strike side eyed the caboose as the train moved out. The gaze, albeit minimally alert, did not go past the caboose’s attention.   
“See ya later old buddy!” The caboose chirped in his usual cheery yet unreadable manner. His expression only wavering slightly when Strike mustered up the energy to give the shady little rat a nasty snarl.   
Rusty laughed inwardly a bit. At least he wasn’t completely lost. 

Strike and Rusty got to work moving flat cars as intermodals were transferred onto them by crane. 

As he worked, Strike once more got lost in the fog of his head. Thinking was so tiring. He wanted nothing more than to curl up and stop functioning altogether. He felt like he was trying to move through molasses. Everything was heavy, his body ached. He was frustrated, but had nowhere to put that frustration. It just drilled further into his head wearing him down, till he felt he could barely function.   
“Rusty!” 

Rusty heard something snap followed by a crack and creaking of metal. His eyes shot up. He saw the crane buckle under the weight of one of the intermodal wells. He had no time to react. He clenched his eyes shut and braced for a nasty impact. As he felt the displacement of air just above his head he heard a crunch and groan in pain, but it wasn’t from him…  
Rusty’s eyes opened to see Strike’s piercing eyes staring right at him. His teeth bared, but he wasn’t aggressing him. Strike was holding the deflected intermodal. 

Strike’s body went from half dead to overdrive upon seeing Rusty about to be crushed under an intermodal and collapsed crane. His body moved without even a second thought.   
Strike's body creaked, it was painful, but Rusty being a small switcher would have fared much worse had he not stepped in to take the brunt. 

"Strike! Hold on!"   
Rusty stood up and did his best to help alleviate the load of the fallen intermodal.   
Seeing the chaos a few other engines on standby unhitched themselves and made their way over to lift the well from Strike's shoulders.   
Strike's knees buckled under him causing him to fall down where he stood.   
Once the well was casted off, Rusty, still shaken up, rushed to the diesel's side. Strike was down on his knees and elbows trying to breathe through the pain that plagued his back and shoulders. Initial pain was almost always the worst so it was hard for him to gauge whether or not he was injured.   
He tried to get up but Rusty did his best to hold him down.  
"Strike no, don't get up. Just stay still and wait for help" Rusty said firmly.   
Naturally the first at the scene were the crew of engineers, conductors, and breakmen working on the freight train being loaded along with the yard workers and crane operator.   
The crew surrounded Strike, doing their best to check him for serious injury. Shortly after they arrived, Poppa appeared, concerned about what the commotion was about. He felt a twist in his gut when his eyes became drawn to Rusty, who looked incredibly shaken up, along with a collapsed crane. He hadn’t even seen Strike’s form in the crowd of BNSF engines and workmen.   
“Rusty! You okay son?” Poppa grabbed the young switcher’s shoulders and hastily turned him around.  
“I’m okay Poppa”, he replied in a shaky voice, “but Strike....”   
Poppa followed Rusty’s gaze to the fallen diesel engine, “Oh my…”   
The muscular diesel looked quite helpless laying on his side in the cold mud. His sides heaving as he panted in pain and exhaustion.   
For an engine like him, pulling stacks of loaded wells was nothing, but he was not built to withstand the force of loaded wells falling on top of him, no engine was. Even the freight cars made to carry such vessels would have buckled under that kind of force.   
“How did this happen?” Poppa asked.   
“I was under the crane when it buckled, and Strike… he saved me”.   
Rusty turned his attention back to Strike, once more kneeling down beside him. Poppa followed suit, kneeling behind him with a shoulder on the young steamers back to help calm him.   
“What can I do?” Rusty asked the team.  
“Just stay where you are and try to keep him still and calm”. 

“It’s okay fella, you’re gonna be okay”, the steamer puffed anxiously.   
Strike was half hoping Rusty noticed the Not sure I’m buying that look he returned.   
With the way you're talking to me it seems like the opposite.   
Naturally the little steamer would be shaken, he was almost made into an iron pancake after all, and now his comrade was on the ground potentially seriously injured. Strike did his best to put on a brave face for his sake. Rusty reached for his hand and squeezed it.   
Strike firmly squeezed back.   
Maybe I’m down but I’m still alive.  
Rusty could see a new fire upon looking into Strike’s old yet passionate crimson eyes. A small smile came to the steamers lips.   
The good news was that BNSF would likely pay for the damages since the two were on loan for the work day.


	11. Still Standing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm on a roll again! Another shorter chapter but some character building! Hopefully this will keep up and I can get you all the next chapter real soon!

Wrench sat at the bar stirring her drink, lost in thought. She nearly didn’t notice the larger freighter engine that took a seat next to her. 

The hum she heard was not the type she heard with most diesels even. The signature 20 cylinder hum of an SD45 class. She looked up with a hint of side eye. 

Just as she suspected. 

“Last I checked you were supposed to be resting in your shed, not in here getting tipsy.”

Strike smirked, “What? You know engines, you really expect us to sit around in the sheds when our engines are adequate enough.” 

Wrench couldn’t help but notice how he intentionally diverted away from implying his engine was in “working order”. They both knew that wasn’t true. Heck everyone did. How on earth would a road switcher be doing yard work if it wasn’t some cover for some grave issue?

“Disappointed but not surprised. You’ve got some balls not turning back when you saw your own damn repair truck in here taking the evening off after working on you. You know I could just drag you back to your shed by the ear”. 

Strike grinned, “Only if you’ll tuck me in”.

If Wrench had a nickel for every time she wanted to smack him…. Can’t do that now though, as annoying as he could be, he was her patient, and with his nature of injury, just a playful tap over the head could inflict some damage. 

“Y’know you really shouldn’t be drinking in your state”. She said trying to convince the engine back home, but Strike just made himself comfortable in the bench next to her. 

“I’ll just have one beer and I’ll be gone. Just needed to get out is all.” Strike’s gaze drifted from playful to thoughtful as he shifted his eyes up and ahead, looking at nothing in particular. 

Wrench turned her attention to the sangria sitting in front of her at the bar, taking a long sip from the glass. 

“Really I just wanted to see you…” Strike suddenly piped up. 

Wrench was surprised.  _ Was he really being that forthcoming? That’s not typical from him. _

“See me? Didn’t you just see me while I was working on you?”

“Well yeah, but like… A more casual setting. Not in a patient-doc kinda way y’know.” 

Wrench supposed she could understand that. Strike seemed wary about her when she was working on him anyways. A little white coat syndrome perhaps? 

Strike ordered a single glass of PBR for himself before settling in to make small talk with Wrench. 

“So you’ve been with the old Santa Fe for a while now?” he asked

“Well yes and no I suppose, before I came back to join BNSF, I had a… different job,” Wrench diverted her attention to her glass. 

“Oh?” Strike raised an eyebrow. 

Strike certainly wasn’t pushing to know more, but she did bring it up. It was not like it was something she felt like she needed to hide or anything really. It was a job. 

Who was she kidding, it was more than a job….

“I suppose you could say I, in a sense, worked for Amtrak for a time”, she continued. 

“Amtrak huh, I suppose they need breakdown cranes just as much as any other railroad, they buy you off Santa Fe or something?” 

“Not quite, I was more hired as a private caretaker, for one of their electric engines. He was a real star on his line you know. One of the fastest engines in North America.” 

Strike stayed silent to allow Wrench to continue. 

“I was his caretaker and trainer, having him all groomed and kept in good shape for racing and his high speed work pulling passenger trains. I was a member of a team of trucks who minded him.”

“Was it a good gig?”

“I’d say so, yes”

“So why did you leave to get into working for BNSF?” 

Wrench sighed. 

“You see, being as much of a high status engine as he was, he was allowed a special spot in the World Championship. Between his speed and the fact he had several physical advantages over the engines from other nations, he had a very good chance of winning. He ended up making the final cut for the championship. He raced, and well… he wrecked. That was the year Rusty won.”

Strike’s heart sank, “He wrecked?”

Upon realizing what she implied, she quickly jumped back in to explain things, “No no it wasn’t a horrific accident or anything, he was hurt but nothing I couldn’t fix….. Really it was his pride that was hurt more. He felt disgraced by the results of the race, too ashamed to return home, he just sort of… left, disappeared.”

Strike adopted a skeptical look, “How exactly do you go about losing an electric? Isn’t he restricted to power lines?” 

Wrench sighed, “As ridiculous as it sounds, it’s more likely than you think”

Strike became more intrigued.

“I don’t expect you’ve had much contact with electrics, I know I didn’t before working with Electra. When I still worked for Sante Fe, I worked heavily with diesels and a few steamers here and there”, Wrench continued, “When in racing mode, electrics can actually hold a charge for some period of time”. 

“So what your saying is, he could’ve ventured off the lines?” 

“For a few hours yes, he could’ve run out of power and stranded himself on some abandoned line somewhere for all we know.” 

Wrench’s expression grew more and more bleak as she continued. 

“We did our best to look for him, unfortunately we trucks can’t go far without an engine. We were forced to give up and go our separate ways…. I really wish I knew where the others were. I’m really worried about all of them, Electra included.” 

Strike was taken aback. He was used to Wrench’s hardass demeanor. Seeing her get emotional was new for him. 

“Electra didn’t just take us as his minders because we were good at our jobs y’know… We had jobs before, but were left abandoned for one reason or another. Electra took us in when we had nowhere else to go. Fortunately I was able to find my way back to work for BNSF but I don’t know how the others ended up.” 

Strike didn’t really know what to say to make Wrench feel any better. 

“I’m sorry”, was all he could come up with. 

Wrench sighed quietly, “At least I know I’m in good company”.

Had it been anyone else (and the alcohol certainly helped too), Wrench would have probably never opened up about to, Strike also went through hell and back and is still going through it. 

Strike only just noticed he’d barely touched his drink, though now he wasn’t really feeling into drinking. 

He left some cash on the counter for the tender, and got up to leave. 

“Sorry I won’t bug you anymore”. 

Clearly the small talk he tried wasn’t so small. 

Wrench touched his shoulder padding.

“No really it’s okay…. I’m sorry I got so emotional, it’s not like me..”

Strike thought a moment about what Wrench just said.

“As a repair truck, I don’t imagine you like seeing rollingstock trying to hide their pain. If they're hurting, it means something’s wrong, trying to hide it can turn a bad issue worse, am I right?”

Wrench didn’t say anything, but Strike could tell by the look in her eyes that this was true. 

“Then why try to hide yours? What does it fix?” 

Wrench was silent, Strike waited for some indication of life for a while, but decided to get up and leave. 

As Strike’s back was turned, Wrench finally spoke. 

“That certainly says something coming from you”. 

Strike didn’t know how to respond to that, so he got moving once more and made his way back to the yard. 


End file.
